


Your Soul's in a Wildfire

by furtivus



Series: What's in a Name [2]
Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Healing, I try to make this as close to the actual mythology as possible while staying true to the game, Kinda, Kratos tries to be a good dad, Magic, Mimir helps, No doubt about that, Shapeshifting, So yes, Tissues?, You Have Been Warned, atreus is struggling with his heritage, atreus kinda hates himself, but this whole magic thing is kind of out of his depth, dont @ me, im the author and im confused, im writing this because I dont want to say goodbye to carry my fears as the heavens set fire, its gonna be a train wreck, like no doubt, like thats the only reason, my poor sunshine boy, no i didn't make a mistake with the archive warnings, the characters and relationships are definitely going to change, this is purely self service, tissues., you know what im a liar this is going to be nothing like the actual mythology, you'll probably get confused reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furtivus/pseuds/furtivus
Summary: There are parts of himself that Atreus can live with, and parts that he would rather live without.Unfortunately for him, the scars of his past like to remind him of their presence. The parts of himself he tries so desperately to hide are the ones he cannot escape. They haunt him, and they haunt his father.Lurking on the horizon is something inevitable - a fate even Kratos cannot avoid. Ragnarök is fast approaching, and the prophecies of Atreus' people loom above them all, almost as foreboding as the foretold end of days. Fate is a tricky thing, and Atreus' has been marked in stone for longer than he has been alive. But in order to fulfil the prophecies of the Jötnar and bring some semblance of order to the chaos of the world, he has to embrace the parts of himself he would much rather keep hidden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened.  
> If you like my work, please consider supporting me by buying me a coffee here: ko-fi.com/vesaniart

Atreus rubs his fingers absentmindedly against the cloth tied around his waist. It’s a reminder – a promise. A promise he makes to himself, and a promise he makes to others. To the people he loves, and the people he has yet to meet.

The snow has not stopped falling since he killed Baldur. There are days when it is so light that it almost seems to have stopped, but it never truly does. It’s a constant – one of few in Atreus’ life. It isn’t falling particularly heavily, but he’s been sitting in the one place for a while now – long enough for a small pile to collect on his head and shoulders.

He’s returned to wearing fur vests over his tunics. Short boots under pants tied down with twine or bandages. No more knee length boots that hide his pants, and no more half cloaks – no more gods’ clothes.

Atreus draws his legs up from the cliff’s edge and stands, dusting the snow off himself as he does. He casts a final glance back up at the Mountain, then turns and walks away through his mother’s garden. He does his best to tend to it – it went into a state of disrepair after the fire troll burned through it, and in the months after that they were away on their journey. But enough of it survived for Atreus to bring it back to glory. It was not easy, what with the constant winter, but it gives him something to do in his free time, and helps to distract him from the bad days.

The bad days. Because there are bad days. Days where Atreus wakes up to an insatiable itch beneath his skin that cannot be scratched – where the only way to sate it is to allow it to consume him, to let himself run mindless and rampant as his body changes over and over and over again. Days where the voices of his people yell and cry and scream at him – screaming out their suffering from Helheim, because never would Odin allow his enemies to take a seat in his hall. Days where he is struck by the overwhelming need to feel something writhing in his grip – to feel the life drain away from them as he whispers that spell, that single word, and burns away a little bit of himself with them.

And then there are the nothing days. The days where he is so consumed with one emotion that he can feel nothing else. That he feels like he is nothing else. Feels like he is nothing. Days where he can do nothing but yearn after the care and love he found in Fulla. Days where he is consumed by fear – the fear of losing the people he loves, and the fear of losing his hope for the world, and the fear of losing himself. Days where he feels nothing but regret.

Days like today.

His chest burns with it – with the regret he has inflicted upon himself. Looking around at the bleak, grey world, he can almost trick himself into thinking he regrets killing Baldur because it bore the arrival of Fimbulwinter one hundred winters early. But he knows, really, that he regrets killing the god because he considered him a friend. Even after everything he did and said – after all the lies and trickery and manipulation – Atreus can’t help but think of him as such. And he hates it.

He never told his father. He never needed to. Kratos just knows. Atreus can tell his father isn’t particularly fond of that train of thought, but he’s aware of the burden it is on Atreus – of the burden he inflicts on himself because of it – and so he offers nothing but his support.

Of everything that came out of Atreus’ experience, the knowledge that his father’s love truly is unconditional is undoubtedly the best.

Atreus loses whole days, sometimes. One minute he’ll be blinking his eyes open, relishing in the warmth of his bed. The next he’ll be drawing the furs back around himself as the fire dwindles in the hearth and the darkness of the night sets in. He asks his father what he does on those days. Sometimes it’s nothing, and sometimes it’s everything. Some days he just sits, staring blankly at something Kratos cannot see. Other days he will work and train and hunt, completing every task thrown his way without so much as a batted eyelash. And then he’ll come to, with no recollection of any of it.

He once lost a whole week in such a manner.

It’s terrifying to him, to think that he can just lose parts of himself so easily. But it’s not quite as terrifying as the knowledge that, for almost two years, he completely lost himself. Sometimes these missing days can be a comfort. It’s not often, though.

Atreus begins the walk home. He could easily take another form – could fly or run or even swim, if he felt so inclined. But he doesn’t. He barely takes animal forms anymore – except, of course, on those days when he surrenders to the magic burning beneath his skin. He can count on both hands the number of times he has taken an animal form outside of those days, since the day he drove his knife into Baldur and ended his life.

Sometimes he wakes up crying. The dreams are getting worse and the day grows closer. Once upon a time Atreus used to long for dreams. His sickness often kept them away. Now, he wants only for a dreamless night. He cannot remember the last time he had one.

There are premonitions thrown into his dreams. He cannot escape them. He has dreamed so often of that fast-approaching day that he has all but memorised it. One day, not long from now, Thor will descend upon his home. It’s a terrifying thought.

Sometimes there are memories in his dreams. Most often they are his own. Memories of running his arrowhead through thick purple poison, and of sinking the arrow deep into his father’s flesh; memories of Sindri writhing about beneath his hands, mouth and shoulder bleeding relentlessly; memories of crashing into rocks, of his bones cracking and his body hitting the ground, of his magic working tirelessly to save him; memories of a panic so intense that it spun his body into a completely new shape, just so he could save his father without being spotted; memories of a warm body against his hands, the warmth leeching out of it as screams tore at his ears and the decorated skin was marked by lightning scars.

Sometimes the memories do not belong to him. They are the memories of his people, leeching out of Helheim to taint his dreams. Memories of war and death and pain. Sometimes he wakes his father with their cries – they echo through him, and he is their mouthpiece. They beg and plead for their lives and their sanctuary in a tongue Kratos cannot understand, and by the time Atreus wakes he cannot remember what they said – can only remember their pain, because it then rests in his limbs. He aches with their suffering.

When they returned to Jötunheimr to scatter his mother’s ashes, Atreus and his father spent their time studying the carvings. It was true – his mother had given him the name Loki. And while Kratos tried to again open his son’s heart to it, Atreus only shunned it. He had left his father with the carvings to wander among the statues, and did not leave until he had touched each one – had seen the story of every survivor. Perhaps it was a mistake to do so, he often thinks. Their memories now haunt his dreams.

He woke that morning to his father sitting beside him – a sure sign that he had again spoken for the Jötnar. His throat was raw from their cries, and his muscles burned with the ache of running, and fighting, and dying. The day draws near, he thinks. There can be no other explanation.

Atreus pauses, coming to a stop in the snow. The voices have left him in peace all day. He wonders, if he goes back to that little house in the woods, will they return? Perhaps – but what else can he do? _You could run_ , his blood sings. _You could run and change and never look back_. Under his skin, the itch flares up, and his fingers twitch.

But he cannot. He is not that person anymore. He will not abandon his father again. His fingers find the cloth around his waist and he holds it tightly. It’s a reminder – a promise.

There’s movement to his right. In the blink of an eye he’s down on one knee, bow drawn, crouching still. It was something small – no threat to him. He can allow himself to kneel. Perhaps his time among the Æsir was not exactly time well spent, but at least he learned from the god Ullr how to better his archery. He has undeniably improved, and it has become particularly beneficial over the last year or two, when the supply of game began to dwindle. It was hard enough to find creatures to hunt before Fimbulwinter set in – now, it is almost impossible.

But there is something there, just beyond the bushes. And that something is soon revealed to be a rabbit. Atreus aims, draws the string of the bow a little tighter. His aim is impeccable – the rabbit barely has a chance to realise it has been hit before it’s dead. A clean shot to the head. Perhaps something good did come out of Atreus’ time with the Æsir, after all.

When he returns home – carrying two dead rabbits now, because there was another not far from the first – it’s to his father carrying freshly chopped wood into the house. Kratos drops the load he was carrying and steps back outside, gaze settling on his son.

“Hello, father,” Atreus says, voice soft, as he sets the two rabbits down on the outside table. He hasn’t been speaking much recently.

“You were gone before I woke.” Kratos moves to join his son and stands on the opposite side of the table to him. He lifts a knife and pulls one of the rabbits over to him. “How are you feeling?”

It’s rather obvious to both of them that the answer is ‘not good’, but Atreus only shrugs. “I needed to clear my head. I know they spoke through me again last night – you were sitting beside me when I woke up. I’m sorry for waking you, but at least you could sleep again.”

“You do not need to apologise for what is beyond your control. And you certainly do not need to apologise for something that causes you more pain than it does me.”

Atreus says nothing, only turns his attention back to the rabbit beneath his hand. He resumes preparing it – cutting the flesh from the meat and the meat from the bone. They won’t treat the hide of the rabbits, so the brain and flesh will be discarded. Atreus tries to focus on the little facts like that, rather than the larger truth – he can still feel the warmth of the creature beneath his hand.

He needs himself to make a clean kill. Needs the creature to die on the first shot, or else needs his father to finish it for him. Because the part of him that burns away inside – the part that hungers for the feeling of a life writhing beneath his hands – does not limit itself to humans and dwarves. Because the first time he shot a deer after returning home, his father had to pull him away from its shaking body and finish it off himself. Because in that moment, his hands had burned and his lips had stung, all with the need to whisper that damned word, and Loki had tried to claw his way back up from the depths Atreus had hidden him in.

Atreus feels the warmth of his father’s hands wrap around his wrists and lift them away from the table.

“Do you need a moment?”

And that’s Kratos’ subtle way of saying, _If you want to step away, I’ll understand._ It used to just be an order – he knew his son was spiralling downwards and the only way he could think to get him back up was to force him out of the spiral. But there came a time when just sitting back and letting Kratos cover up the damage wasn’t good enough for Atreus. There came a time when he had to step in and fix the damage on his own. So the order became an invitation.

“No,” Atreus replies, “no, I’m okay. I was just thinking.”

He lifts his knife again and resumes working on the animal. He should have been done by now, he chastises himself. But that doesn’t help – he needs to allow himself to heal. It’s not easy, but necessary things rarely are.

But if that’s really true, then why – why was it so easy to kill Baldur? It was necessary – it had to have been. And yet it was so easy to whisper that one word. Even with tears blinding him and sobs muting him he could steal away the life he had so cared for in those two years. Is it because of what came after? Because the ease of unnecessity overrules the difficulty of necessity? Because it was unnecessary that Ragnarök be brought on one hundred winters early, and so that made murdering Baldur pitifully easy?

Atreus is distracted – lost in the downward spiral – and the knife slips. It slices through the palm of his hand. The sting shakes him to his core, and the blood – _the blood_! This is no longer a time to mend his own wounds – this is a time for running. He staggers away from the table, and Kratos understands.

“Go,” the man insists, but Atreus is already gone – losing himself to the change as he runs, his skin morphing and mind blurring. He will lose this evening – it will be wiped from his memory, just as he loses his days – and for once he does not mind.

 

Atreus wakes up face-down in the snow. There’s a fine coating over him, but not enough to cover him. As Atreus pushes himself up – he slept as a wolf, he guesses, from the way he was curled – he notices the light is that of mid-morning. That he slept in snow is not the most worrying thing – it’s that he spent the night away from his father.

Kratos knows he is capable, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry. Atreus has felt his concern only grow as the months wear on and time ticks down to that unavoidable day. He hates to add more on to that strain – especially when he could have avoided it.

But there’s no time to lament now. What’s done is done – the best thing he can do for both of them is to find his way home. With no idea where he is, Atreus reluctantly takes to the sky.

There’s his home – a few hours’ walk away. He considers returning to the earth, but he is already here – already flying – already not human. So he angles his body to catch the updrafts and soars up into open air.

His keen eyes catch sight of a squirrel, bounding across a tree branch. He’s suddenly aware of just how hungry he is. He hasn’t had a proper meal in days. Atreus swoops down, claws catching around the tiny animal. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s okay to revel in the creature’s writhing and squirming because he’s a _falcon_ , an _animal_ , and that’s what animals do. That’s just what they do.

The house is cold and empty when Atreus steps inside. Perhaps his father went looking for him. Perhaps not. Either way, the best thing for him to do is stay in the house and await his father’s return. If he goes searching for the man and doesn’t find him, they’ll inevitably get caught up in a never ending loop of searching for the other.

So he sits. And he waits.

Kratos has not gone far. He wasn’t looking for Atreus, because he trusts the boy to handle himself – but still, he does not try to hide his relief when he walks in to find his son. He’s quick to kneel in front of the boy’s bed – to cup his cheek and study him for any other injuries, or for any sign that he will spiral downwards again. At first the action annoyed Atreus. Now it has become a reassurance. A sign of the unconditional love he isn’t sure what he did to earn.

Atreus goes to apologise, and Kratos cuts him off. “I know what you are going to say, and you do not have to. No apologies. Not for this.”

“Yes, father,” he replies, and there’s a pleasant warmth blossoming in his chest.

“I’m glad you have returned safe. Did you get far?”

“A few hours away on foot. Though I flew back.”

Kratos smiles faintly. Ever so slowly his son is beginning to warm up to his heritage. Where once he embraced it, he now shuns it. But Kratos does not miss the way Atreus will cast little spells – with that faint look of hope in his eyes, as though he knows something good can again come from his gift. There are spells he has no issue with casting – calls for the fire to light itself, or to strengthen its flames; the spells to enhance his arrows with light; the order to heal. There are some spells he uses tentatively, like his runic summons and the electric charge on his arrows – these are the ones whose wounds time has helped to heal. Someday soon, Kratos believes, he will be able to cast them without flinching.

And then there are the other spells. Spells he will not even consider casting. No longer does Atreus bind the roots and the vines to his bidding. No longer does he call on the touch of death. The latter, Kratos does not mind so much – it is only the reasoning behind his son’s fear of it that displeases him. As much as he hated Baldur, he can only image the pain his son must have been going through when he stole away his life.

“I am glad to hear that,” Kratos says, continuing the conversation as though he had thought of nothing more. “Did you want to rest?”

Atreus shakes his head. “I slept already. At least, I think so. I woke up in the snow.”

Kratos presses the back of his hand to his son’s brow, his mouth drawing into a straight line. “Do you need me to light the fire?”

“No, father. I’m not cold.”

Of course. All his thoughts on his son’s heritage and he forgets one of the more important parts. Kratos lowers his hand and nods. “Of course. But the wood is there, should you change your mind.”

Atreus nods and turns his attention to the small pile of wood and kindling in the corner of the room. With nothing more to say he begins twisting his mother’s ring on his finger – it’s a habit he picked up, though he isn’t sure just when it started. It helps to distract him. It’s enough of a task that he can momentarily forget about his blood and his magic and the second _him_ buried deep inside, but a small enough task that he does not need to focus his attention entirely on it and can allow himself to think of other things.

There is nothing for Atreus to do – his father leaves to hunt with the explicit instructions that Atreus is to stay home. But that’s alright. He doesn’t currently trust himself around any other living thing. He could try to sleep, but he knows it will only invite the dreams, and he would like to stave those off for as long as possible. He could practice his magic, but he has all but mastered the spells he trusts himself with. He’s not in the mood to hold a bow.

So he sits. Sits and thinks and allows himself to zone out while he twirls the ring on his finger. He has not been keeping track since the day he first dreamed of Thor – not that it would matter if he did, because he wasn’t sure just how far in the future the dream would take place. Roughly three years, he knew. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure.

The voices inside him begin to rise. The corners of Atreus’ mouth twitch upwards – they rarely speak to him outside of sleep. He wonders what they will have to say to him this time. But they say nothing. He simply feels their presence – feels the sound of voices murmuring, like a whole chorus of people chanting so softly that their voices are nothing more than an indistinct muttering.

Perhaps he is speaking for them. Sometimes he acts as their mouthpiece without knowing. But he is sure that he is not speaking – he even opens and closes his mouth to be sure of it. So that’s all it is – a presence. The souls of his people making themselves known. It’s not strictly unpleasant. Atreus has certainly felt worse.

He wonders if they were to speak now, what would they say. Would they scream for their lives? Would they tell him their secrets? Would they remind him of what is to come? Atreus does not know. Does he want to? He isn’t so sure.

There comes a single voice, like a bubble, rising through the presence of the other voices. When it reaches the top of him it bursts – a crystal clear voice saying only a single word.

_Loki._

Twirling the ring on his finger is no longer enough. Atreus needs more of a distraction. He needs a way to silence the voices – but of course, he cannot. He has never been able to force them away. They are not a part of himself that he has any control over. But perhaps he can drown them out.

He whispers to himself the spells. The little things – fire and light and ice. First between his fingertips, then in the hearth when the fuzz of the voices persists. Atreus distracts himself with a repetitive game – light the fire, summon the ice, wait for the ice to melt and the water to douse the fire, repeat. It’s childish, and he’s technically no longer a child – he was born almost fifteen winters ago, if he counts the two years he spent in Asgard. Which he does. But he allows himself these childish moments – these moments of innocence and youth – because no one else will give them to him.

When it begins to grow dark and his father still has not returned, Atreus prepares to spend the night alone. He calls on the fire again, leaving it be this time, and lays down in his bed. He’s used to staying up well into the night, but perhaps a little extra rest will do him well. The voices return, only this time the bubbles are more numerous. As Atreus allows himself to fall asleep, he is accompanied by the whispers.

_Loki._

And when Kratos returns home in the early hours of the morning, a roe deer slung across his shoulders, Atreus is asleep in his bed, bathed in the light of the fire’s dying embers and the glowing marks on his hands and lips, mouth forming again and again the words, “He will join us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is UP everybody, I gave you a whole two days to recover from Carry My Fears as the Heavens Set Fire so you should all be up and raring to go  
> This is so very incredibly a self service fic - I didn't want to let go of the first book so I wrote a sequel and I know a few of you guys were sad to see the last book go so hopefully you enjoy this one  
> Updates will not be as frequent because I have gone back to school, but I'll try to make each chapter a decent length to try and make up for that  
> Hopefully you guys enjoy this story and you don't cry toooo hard  
> That's right babes the smug sadistic little meanie is back and she's pulling all the punches


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus is trying his hardest, and that's all that matters.

“What did the Jötnar tell you last night?” Kratos asks come morning.

“I can’t remember,” Atreus replies, lifting his head from where he’d been binding the legs of his pants. “Why? Did it sound important? Can you remember some of the words? I might be able to translate.”

“You were not speaking their language. You were speaking ours.”

“Oh.” Atreus sits up straight and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s…weird. Do you think I was translating what they were saying? Or they started speaking our language to me instead of theirs?”

“I do not know.”

“Right. Right, yeah. So…what was I saying?”

Kratos looks down at his son and considers for a moment just what to say. “It…was not important,” he finally concludes, turning away.

Atreus’ mouth draws into a straight line and he stands, walking up behind his father. “Don’t lie to me,” he says. It’s almost a demand. “I know you are. I thought we agreed not to hide things from each other?”

“And yet you hide things from me.” Kratos turns and looks down at his son. Surprisingly he does not sound angry – more concerned that anything. “You hide how you feel. You do not tell me when you are struggling. You do not allow me to help.”

“Because that’s my problem,” Atreus replies softly. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head slightly away. “I don’t need to burden you with it. I can figure things out on my own. And what the Jötnar said – that’s my problem, too. You don’t need to worry over it, but I need to fix it.”

“You are rarely foolish,” his father says, a hint of mirth in his voice, “and this is one of those few times.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am your father. It is my job to help you, and to support you. No matter what happens, I am here. I may not know much about just what it is that plagues you, but I know that these past years would have been easier had you shared your problems. I will do my best to guide you. As will the head.”

Atreus offers a faint smile and turns towards Mimir. He had honestly forgotten the head had been there, resting on a shelf he and his father had made. Mimir acts as though he wasn’t just watching the exchange, but he’s been caught and he knows it.

“Your da’s right. I mightn’t be an expert in the affairs of the Jötnar but I know enough that I can offer some help.”

“Did you hear what I was saying, Mimir? What they might mean?”

“Unfortunately not, lad. Your da took me out with him and he’s awfully dull so I fell asleep somewhere along the way.”

Kratos folds his arms and sighs softly. “They were…saying you would join them.”

“What?” Atreus turns back to his father.

“You were saying, over and over again – ‘he will join us’. I don’t know what they mean.”

“Do you know Mimir?”

“I…may have some idea, lad. But I know nothing for certain. And until I’m sure, it’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Mimir –”

“I know, I know – no keeping secrets. But I’m not. Not really. I’m genuinely unsure of just what they mean, and I don’t want to give you false information.”

Atreus hums at the back of his throat and drops his arms to his sides. “Alright. But if you figure it out, let me know. Okay? I…I want to know. Even if it has nothing to do with me, I want to know.”

“I promise, lad. As soon as I know for sure what they’re saying, I’ll tell you.”

Atreus seems content with that. He picks up his bow and slings his quiver over his shoulder. “Do you have anything planned for today, father?”

“I was intending to hunt more. The roe will not keep us fed for particularly long.”

“I’ll hunt, too. If we split up we can cover more ground – we’ll have a better chance of finding something.”

Kratos studies him for a moment. “You will be alright?”

“I’ll be fine. Yesterday wore me out a bit. Tempered it. And I know how to handle it now. It’s okay.”

There’s a tense moment where Atreus doesn’t think his father will let him go. But then he nods, and motions towards the door.

On most days Atreus is allowed to hunt alone, but when he has spiralled downwards like he did the day prior Kratos tends to become defensive of him. Sometimes the days after he feels more riled up than he did when he lost himself. Some days, like today, he actually feels better – like all the badness inside has been emptied out, and he has time before it refills.

Still, he doesn’t intend to let himself get too close to something that’s only partly dead.

Atreus practically runs from the house, and out into the snow. There are only a few flakes falling – the closest the snow has ever been to stopping. It’s the best weather Fimbulwinter allows for hunting, as it means tracks will not be quickly covered. Atreus picks a direction and steps out into the trees.

It takes him about half an hour to find tracks. They seem fresh, but at the rate the snow is falling he can’t be sure. Atreus kneels, and holds out his hand. He presses his fingers into one of the tracks and his vision goes white. Then he sees the deer – a regular deer, not just a roe – and the shadows beneath her. They’re nearly identical to the current shadows. Atreus pulls his hand away and his lips curl into a faint smile. She’s not long gone.

He begins to follow the tracks, movements slow and steady. When he loses them, he uses the methods his mother taught him to relocate them. When that fails, he touches his fingertips to the ground and lets his Jötnar sight take over.

It takes him nearly two hours to find her. She had about a half hour on him, which didn’t exactly help, but his pace is fast enough that he tracks her eventually. The deer is grazing in a clearing when Atreus finally catches up to her. The faint snow has melted enough to reveal small tufts of grass. None of it looks very appealing or very alive, but the deer doesn’t seem to mind.

Atreus draws his bow and circles the clearing slowly, ensuring he remains upwind of the deer. The last thing he wants is for her to catch his scent and be scared away. He notches and arrow and draws the string taut, continuing to circle the animal. In doing so, though, he reveals to himself the creature lying beside the doe. It’s a fawn.

He lets out a faint breath, fingers twitching against the arrow. There is no way he can carry both the deer and her fawn back through the woods to their house. Regardless of his strength, he only has two hands – and while there is the chance that, on a good day, he could find in himself the strength to carry both, today is not a good day.

But to kill only one?

If he were to kill the doe, the fawn would never survive. It is still young, and perhaps injured considering its tracks did not accompany the mother’s and it has not moved since Atreus arrived.

If he were to kill the fawn, the doe would lose a child. Perhaps she knows she already will, from the way she nudges at its side and stands close to it. Perhaps it is already dying, and to kill it would be to put it out of its misery.

But Atreus has no way of knowing. Perhaps the fawn is only resting – it is still only young and its available food is limited. Perhaps he would kill it, and come to regret it. There’s only one way to find out.

Atreus lowers his bow and fits the arrow back into his quiver. He slings the bow over his shoulder and stands. The moment he does, the doe stands straighter, her attention fixed on him. Neither one moves any further.

When Atreus steps closer, the deer steps forwards to stand over her fawn. She almost seems to be daring Atreus to lay a finger on it. The fawn tries to stand, only to fall back to the ground with a pitiful cry. The actions just confirm Atreus’ suspicions: the fawn is suffering.

Realising Atreus will not step back, the doe skitters away from her child. She understands she can do nothing for it, especially not if Atreus decides to take its life. But she does not go far – just stands at the edge of the clearing and watches with wise, deep brown eyes.

Atreus crouches down beside the fawn, which tries futilely to escape. It manages to push itself up onto its front legs and tries to start running, but its left back leg gives out and it hits the ground hard. Atreus sees why it fell instantly – there’s a bloodied gash on its left thigh, which has definitely become infected. The fawn has no hope.

The thoughts come back to him – the thoughts of taking the creature by the throat and squeezing; the thoughts of driving his knife deep into its chest; the thoughts of pressing his scarred palms to its tiny, quivering body and whispering that one damned word.

Atreus stares down at the fawn – at its fear-filled eyes, its heaving chest, its quivering legs. And he lays his fingertips against it.

 

Atreus returns home carrying a mountain hare across one shoulder and dragging the body of a wild boar behind him. His father walks to meeting him in the yard, having come up empty-handed in his own hunt.

“I’ll tend to these,” Kratos says gently, and Atreus doesn’t argue.

“I’ll help salt them when they’re ready,” he says, walking past his father and stepping into the house. He’s suddenly _so tired_.

Atreus drops down onto his bed and slumps onto his side, ignoring the digging of the hilt of his knife into his side and the unhappy creaking of the wooden frame from the sudden impact.

“Are you alright, little brother?” Mimir asks, and Atreus shifts so he can see the head.

“Healing a deer is really different to healing a human,” he groans, pushing himself up onto an elbow.

Mimir raises an eyebrow. “Care to explain?”

Atreus is tempted to say no, but it won’t do him any good to bottle up the thoughts. So he takes a moment to shed his bow and quiver, and to unhook his knife from his belt, before rolling onto his stomach.

“I tracked a doe, all the way to this little clearing. I was moving around her to keep myself upwind, and I saw the fawn beside her. It was hurt, and it couldn’t run – a gash on its thigh. The mother moved away when I got close but she didn’t run, she just watched me.”

“You didn’t kill either of them?” There’s no judgement in Mimir’s voice, just idle curiosity.

“I couldn’t. If I killed the mother, the fawn would die. It was going to die anyway, so logically I could have killed it – but I couldn’t hurt the mother like that. Maybe if she had run away, but not with her watching. And killing both would be a waste of lives when I couldn’t bring them both back. So…I didn’t kill either of them.”

Mimir watches Atreus silently for a moment, and it’s just starting to border on creepy when the head finally asks, “But why didn’t you kill it?”

“I already told you.”

“Fair point. So I suppose the better question would be, why didn’t _Loki_ kill it?”

Atreus stills, then looks down at his crossed hands. “Because…” He tries to find the words, gesturing faintly with his fingers while he thinks. “Because I didn’t let him. Because he wanted so badly to squeeze the life out of it and I just – I didn’t. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to kill it. I almost did – _he_ almost did – but I stopped him.”

He can barely remember it. Can barely remember sitting there, fingertips pressed to the fawn’s hide, as his marks glowed a vibrant, sickening gold, and the words and thoughts and _want_ racing through his mind. Can barely remember his fingers shaking as he fought down the words, and fought back the other him buried deep in his mind. Can barely remember the moment he took control, even as his thoughts screamed at him to end the live quivering and squirming beneath his hands, and _saved it_ instead.

“I knew there was no one else to stop me. No one to help me. Father wasn’t there to pull me away. But I didn’t want to kill it, and he was going to make me. So I denied him. I…I beat him.” He swallows thickly. “For now.”

“Loki is still inside you?”

“Unfortunately.”

Mimir sighs softly. “He will always be a part of you, lad. In the end, he’s just a name. The sooner you realise that –”

“No,” Atreus says, turning his head away. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Mimir offers a gentle, “Well done, lad.”

Atreus smiles faintly and lowers his head. He tries not to think about what Mimir said – about what he was going to say. It’s not the first time the thought has crossed his mind. It won’t be the last, but he’d rather the next time not come soon. It’s not exactly a pleasant thought.

He curls his fingers into the thick fur of the wolf pelt beneath him and closes his eyes. After a moment, Atreus begins to trace his fingers across it – not making any pattern in particular, just distracting himself. It’s soothing – a repetitive motion that he can focus just enough attention on to keep himself from thinking about _other things_.

It helps that he’s ridiculously tired and wow, _wow_ , that fur is soft.

Atreus isn’t sure whether it’s the dream or his father that wakes him. He dreams of Thor again. Of the lightning striking the ground outside, and tearing a hole in the roof. Of his father clutching at his axe and throwing the door open. Of Thor standing, motionless, as the wind blows his cape away to reveal Mjolnir. And that’s where the dream ends. Where it always ends. Logically, it’s what caused him to wake up.

But for a split second, it seems like there’s more. For a split second, it seems like his father’s hand on his shoulder is actually what rouses Atreus.

For a split second, he swore he saw white – white purer than the snow, and glowing. Almost radiant. Long and twisting and heaving, almost like it was alive.

“Atreus?” his father asks, concern in his voice, and Atreus realises he was crying.

 

When they finish salting the meat, Atreus takes the boat out down the stream and paddles to the Lake of Nine. It’s not the first time he’s made the trip alone. His father trusts him to take care, and to return safely. He still has a few hours of daylight to do what he needs to do.

Which is…what?

He knows he has to get away from the house. He knows he has to find out what he saw in that vision. But he doesn’t know how the Lake of Nine will help him. There is nothing out here for him. Just salty water and Týr’s temple and the Huldra shop and –

The Huldra shop. Brok and Sindri.

Atreus paddles over to the bridge and pulls the boat into place against it. He ties it down and starts up the stairs. He hasn’t been to Týr’s temple in a while, preferring to find one of the dwarves’ other shops while he’s out with his father than return to this place.

 _Blood on the floor_.

Atreus pushes open the doors and steps inside, footsteps ringing out through the main chamber.

 _Echoing screams_.

He walks up to the shop and stands by the counter, pressing his hands against the flat surface while he waits for one of the dwarves to notice him. Sindri turns, chatting away to Brok as he does, and sets his brand down on a workbench.

_Terrified, watering eyes._

Atreus’ legs almost give out and he slams his weight onto his hands to keep himself upright. His torso lurches forwards and for a moment he thinks he’s going to topple over the counter, but no – he catches himself and just stands, chest heaving, as he stares down at his hands. They only reason they’re not shaking, he thinks, is because they’re pressed flat against the bench. Atreus blinks once, and suddenly there’s blood on his hands and he’s no longer leaning on the counter because he’s crouching in front of a shaking dwarf and he’s grinning so madly that it _hurts_ but he can’t stop, can’t stop, _can’t stop_ –

“Master Atreus?”

Atreus screws his eyes shut and takes a few deep breaths. His chest tightens. When he looks up, Sindri is studying him worriedly. Brok isn’t too far behind. His gaze is heavy – he never fully forgave Atreus for what he did, but he understood why. He and his brother were torn apart by a weapon they made for a god, so both have been able to sympathise with the emotional turmoil that Atreus must have gone through while spending two years in their company. Still, there’s always an undeniable tension present whenever all three are in a room together. Atreus doesn’t blame either of them.

“I’m fine,” he says, steadying his breath. “Just…tired.”

Sindri doesn’t look like he believes a word Atreus just said, and Brok less so.

“Are you sure?” Sindri asks softly, and Atreus knows he understands. The boy lets his eyes flutter shut and drops his head again, allowing himself a couple of minutes to recover from the flashback.

“I’m okay,” he says when he straightens. It’s technically not a lie – he’s okay enough.

“Wonderful. What can we do for you today? We haven’t seen you here in a while, so it must be a special occasion.”

Oh, and Sindri is trying so hard to distract him – what did Atreus ever do to deserve a friend like him?

“I had a dream,” Atreus says simply, leaning one elbow against the counter.

“A dream?”

“Well…a premonition. I’ve told you about them?”

“You sure have,” Brok replies, setting his tools down. “Your dreams was the only thing that convinced this one” – he jerks a thumb at Sindri – “that it really is Fimbulwinter out there.” He turns towards his brother with a faint smile. “I told you, huh? Felt it in my scrote.”

“Well, don’t be so pleased with yourself – it’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything.” Sindri huffs softly and turns his attention back to Atreus. “Did you see something else?”

Atreus nods. “I don’t know what. I was wondering if you would.”

“Potentially. Only one way to find out.”

Atreus recounts to the pair what he saw in the last split-second of his dream earlier that day. He tells them about the white shape – writhing and coiling and alive – and how it appeared to be stemming from something that he couldn’t quite see. He tells them about the way it didn't seem to be completely there, as though it were just some sort of mist or echo of life. He tells them about how he woke up to tears on his cheeks.

When he’s finished, the two dwarves share a long, knowing look.

“It’s…complicated,” Sindri finally says, and Atreus’ whole body slumps.

“Can’t things be easy, just this once?” he asks, rolling his eyes and looking away. He straightens after a moment, still leaning one arm on the counter, and turns his attention back to the dwarves. “Tell me?”

“It really is complicated.”

“I have time.”

Sindri and Brok sigh, and share another look – this one with more grit teeth and nervousness than the last. They’re not even trying to be subtle about the fact that they’re hiding something from him.

“I’m getting sick of people hiding things about me from me,” Atreus growls under his breath. He sees the way the two dwarves tense, the way their gazes slowly move towards him. He doesn’t miss the momentary flicker of apprehension on Sindri’s face. Not quite fear. For a moment he doesn’t realise why. Then his own words echo back to him, the tone he used ringing in his ears, and he curses himself silently.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, pushing away from the bench. “Sorry, I’ll – I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Sindri says, stepping up to the counter and leaning after Atreus. “It’s just…there are some things you need to learn for yourself. Some paths you have to discover on your own.”

“You know what it is.” Atreus turns so he’s facing the dwarves again. “So it was prophesised?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Yes.”

“So it’s important.”

“Yes.” No hesitation that time.

“But you can’t tell me.”

Brok and Sindri share yet another look. It’s heavier. Sadder.

“This isn’t something you want to know.”

Atreus remembers the tears on his cheeks when his father woke him. He can still feel the sadness tightening his heart, but he has no idea why.

“I’m going to see it sooner or later,” he murmurs. “Surely I should get a little warning?”

Tense, heavy silence follows. When no one speaks, Atreus turns to walk away.

“If you really wants to know,” says Brok, and that’s the most surprising thing, “then find them carvings in Jötunheimr.”

“Father and I already studied them all,” Atreus says, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “There was nothing about a white… _thing_.”

“It’ll be there. You just have to look closer.”

Atreus studies the pair for a moment before offering a weak smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs. This time when he goes to leave, he isn’t stopped.

 

Atreus is very good at not sleeping. He has to be, because his father is very good at telling when people are pretending to be asleep. Something he picked up from his days _before_ , Atreus decides. He never asks, because that would bring to light that fact that he often doesn’t sleep. It isn’t something he wants to worry his father with.

So he pretends to sleep. He closes his eyes and shifts around just enough to make it seem realistic, and then he quiets his breathing and stills. He makes sure he can see his father through his eyelashes, and watches as the man prepares to sleep himself.

Kratos finishes sharpening his axe and his blades, then tops up the fire just enough to last them through the night. Then he moves over to his bed and lays down to sleep.

Atreus waits until he is sure his father is asleep. Keep his eyes trained on the motionless figure. To check, he shifts slightly – once, twice, three times. No response. Atreus pushes himself up slowly onto one elbow. Again, nothing.

He turns his attention towards Mimir, who is asleep on his stand. Atreus swallows thickly and sits up, considering what he is going to do. Take the head, slip away, and be back before the sunrise. Easy.

Except…

 _This isn’t something you want to know_.

Atreus’ chest tightens. There’s a reason he woke up with tears on his cheeks. He just doesn’t know what it is. And while a part of him yearns to know…another part of him is scared to. He’s afraid of learning just what it is that he saw. He’s afraid of learning what’s to come.

When he first started dreaming of Thor, Atreus was petrified. He had earned the god’s approval by _killing his sons_ , and now he was a traitor to the Æsir – he could only imagine the wrath Thor would bring down on him and his father. But over time, the fear had faded. Had been dulled by the seemingly-endless repetitions of the dream. There was still the lingering fear, sharpened by the knowledge that the foretold day was fast approaching, but the pure existential _dread_ had been softened during the nearly three years since the first dream.

The fear Atreus felt now was raw and primal. More than the dread his first dream of Thor had brought about – something different, something worse. More akin to the pure, all-encompassing fear he had felt when he first woke up, battered and bruised and bleeding, in the hall of Odin. When he thought he had lost his father.

Atreus lowers back to his bed. He does not have three more years to dull this new fear. But he does have some measure of time. And besides, he has seen only a fraction of a second of this new prophecy. Surely it lasts for longer than that. He sinks back into the bed and draws the furs up around him. He’ll see what this new dream brings, he tells himself. Will sleep again tonight and find out just what the vision entails. Then, only when he has seen the whole thing, will he take Mimir and go to Jötunheimr.

 _This isn’t something you want to know_.

Atreus tries to convince himself Sindri is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter two aka chapter "I wrote this instead of doing school work" cause I sure did  
> maths who? religion assignment who? biology assignment who?  
> and I wonder why my grades are terrible  
> that's a lie I'm doing well enough in most subjects I just have the world's worst self control and time management  
> thoughts on this/future chapters?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus is seeing things, and they're not all good.

Atreus does not dream of Thor.

He dreams of snow. The most beautiful snow he has ever seen – purest white and drifting slowly downward on a faint breeze. It settles around him, laying itself down as an unmarked carpet. Atreus walks slowly through the ankle-deep snow, barely feeling the cold.

Behind him, a figure walks out of the snow-covered trees and out into the open space. The figure doesn’t seem to notice him, simply walking past him with their head bowed. They wear a long cloak with a raised hood, and the shadow hides their face.

Atreus turns to keep them in his sight, then hurries through them after the snow. He tries to call out, but he doesn’t make a sound. Atreus keeps moving, keeping pace with the hooded figure.

They stop at a seemingly random point and tilt their head back. Atreus follows their gaze, and notices for the first time the mountain in the distance – peaks like the fingers of a giant stretching up to the sky.

And it’s…

He’s in the snow again. It’s different snow, but he isn’t sure how he knows. It feels different. It feels like less of something, but he can’t quite find the word.

The figure is back. They walk among the trees – a strangely familiar landscape. Atreus follows them again, trying to think of where he has seen this land before. Perhaps if there were a path to his left?

They step out of the trees to a river, and suddenly Atreus realises just where he has seen this place.

The figure keeps walking. They walk up to a tree and press a palm to it. After a second they take a step back, and Atreus can see an arm shift beneath their cloak. They draw out from beneath the material a familiar looking axe. They take a swing at the tree, the axe blade digging deeply into the wood. Bark flecks away, loose pieces falling from the impact. They draw back, swing forwards, again and again until the tree falls. They plant the axe in the snow and lean one hand on the base of the handle, lifting the other to push back their hood.

It’s his mother.

And she’s…

They’re standing on a cliff, looking down at his home. It looks different – new, the land around it untended and still flecked with trees that are no longer there. Faye is standing at the edge, hood down and cloak billowing in the breeze. She appears to be mapping something out in her head. After a moment she turns and begins to walk down the cliff. Atreus hurries to follow her.

They walk in a rough circle through the woods around their home. Faye walks with her hand out, murmuring softly beneath her breath and brushing her fingertips to the trees she passes. Faint traces of magic hang between the branches. When they finally come full circle, Faye reaches out to the first tree she touched to close the stave.

The trees all glow with a glorious golden light.

And they’re all…

They’re standing on the bridge leading to the mountain. Behind them is the portal to the highest peak in Midgard. No longer does the snow fall around them. Instead, the world has been reduced to sand. A wasteland.

A woman walks across the bridge. She’s taller than Faye, but has the same red hair and crystalline eyes. They embrace at the end of the bridge closest to the portal. Atreus can see tears on both their cheeks. They lean back and murmur softly to each other, something that seems personal.

Atreus turns away to give them their moment. It may be just a memory of the past, but still he feels like he needs to give them privacy. When they pull apart, Atreus looks back at his mother. They exchange a few more, brief words, then she turns and walks towards the portal. The other woman watches her go.

Faye raises her hand across the portal, lips moving silently as she summons a spell to seal it. As soon as she steps through, there is no going back. Her cheeks are damp with tears. She almost seems to hesitate, then reaches up to lift her hood as she steps through the portal.

It flares up with a brilliant golden light.

And it’s…

 _Ethereal_.

 

Atreus opens his eyes. He feels…okay. The light spilling in through the open doors is the warm glow of midmorning. His father is absent, but surely he hasn’t gone far. Mimir rests on his shelf, most likely left there to keep watch over Atreus while he slept.

He sits up and rubs at his eyes. Mimir perks up, attention flicking to the boy. Atreus turns his body to face him, while still keeping the furs wrapped tightly around him, and offers the head a smile.

“Morning, lad. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up.”

Atreus chuckles softly. “I went to sleep pretty late last night.”

“Oh, really?” There’s a hint of mirth in Mimir’s voice. “I could have sworn you went to bed well before your da. Funny, that.”

Atreus grins sheepishly and ducks his head. “You won’t tell him?”

“No, lad – I won’t say a word.”

Atreus gives a grateful smile and swings his feet out over the edge of the bed. He crosses the room and begins rummaging through his clean clothes, pulling out a fresh set for the day.

“Where did father go? We have plenty of food.”

“I believe he went to go see the dwarves. Mumbled something about making sure the two of you were ready – weapons, armour, that sort of thing. I think he meant to bring you back some new arrows, too.”

“Why didn’t he wake me?”

“You worried he’ll pick a bad lot?” Mimir teases. Atreus shrugs, casts his gaze downward.

“No. Just…why didn’t he bring me with him?”

Mimir gives a faint smile. “It was the most peaceful he’s seen you sleep in a long while. He didn’t want to wake you.”

A pleasant warmth spreads through Atreus and he smiles. “And he left you to watch over me?”

“Aye, perhaps. Though I think it’s more that he finds me a little insufferable, and leaving me to watch over you was an excuse.” Mimir winks, and Atreus laughs.

“You know he does value having you here,” he says, discarding yesterday’s clothes in a pile to be washed later. “It’s just hard for him to show it. He tries.” Atreus pauses for a moment and studies Mimir, before seeming to come to a conclusion. “He was very grateful to you for suggesting he take me to Freya when I got sick.”

“Really?” Mimir’s eyes widen a touch. “Did he say?”

“No. No, I just kind of…felt it. After we left, once he’d told me he was a god – he felt grateful. Even after we left Freya’s home. And I realised he was grateful towards you. I guess for suggesting it.”

“You should have seen him,” Mimir says softly. “It was the most worried I’d ever seen the man. Granted, I hadn’t known you two all that long – but regardless, it was the most emotion I’d seen from him. And with his absolute hatred for the gods, well…no doubt he would have been facing inner turmoil over whether or not to risk your life in one’s hands. I suppose all he needed was a push in the right direction, because he all but threw himself at her door.”

Atreus looks a little stunned. His father had told him very little about what happened while he was sick – only that he had needed to go to Helheim for him, to fetch for Freya the gatekeeper’s heart. Atreus knew nothing else of the time, at the thought that Kratos had been that concerned never crossed his mind. He smiles faintly at the thought.

“No wonder he was so grateful,” he says, voice soft.

Mimir gives the boy a fond smile. “So,” he says after a moment, “what are your plans for the day?”

“I don’t know.” Atreus lifts his bow and runs his thumb over it. “I was hoping…” He looks away, voice trailing off to nothing,

“You were hoping?” Mimir prods.

“Just, something I dreamed yesterday, before father woke me. I think I missed out on a part of the dream. I was hoping to see the rest of it.”

“But you didn’t dream about it last night?”

“No. I dreamed about…” Atreus looks down at the bow in his hands. “Other things.”

Mimir lets the subject drop. Atreus lifts his quiver and moves back to his bed. He sits on the edge and lifts his knife, then draws one of the arrows. He holds it up and studies the notch on the end. After a moment he judges the weight. When he’s satisfied by how well it’s weighted, and the notching at the end, he sets the arrow down and lifts another.

“Mimir?” Atreus asks, a couple of arrows later.

“Yes, lad?”

“Will you tell me a story?”

Mimir smiles warmly. It’s been a while since he and Atreus sat down together and just enjoyed the other’s company. He wracks his brain for a story the boy hasn’t heard yet. “Why don’t I tell you one from a land, far from here?”

Atreus looks up at Mimir through his eyelashes. “Like where?”

“What about Greece? It’s the land your father’s from.”

“I thought he came from Sparta?”

Mimir laughs warmly, and Atreus feels a light blush creep across his cheeks.

“Sparta is a part of Greece, lad.”

“Oh.”

“No need to be embarrassed. Your da did a rotten job of explaining it.”

Atreus chuckles softly and turns his head back down to the arrow in his hands. “I think I’d like to hear about Greece. There are gods there too, right? Father is one of them.”

Mimir chooses his words carefully. “Aye, lad, there were gods there. Many, actually. Say, why don’t I tell you the story of Persephone?”

“Per-se-pho-ne.” Atreus sounds her name out, trying to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar phonetics. He nods, an indicator for Mimir to continue.

“Persephone actually used to go by another name. She was born Kore, and in your father’s language it means ‘maiden’.”

“Why did she change it?”

“Well, that’s her story, lad! Though, there are a few variations to it. Of course, having met her myself, I know which the true one is.”

“Which is?”

“Where’s the fun in telling you that? Why don’t you guess?”

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair.” Atreus grins. “How should I know if I’ve never met her?”

“That’s the fun part. So, are you up for it?”

Atreus nods eagerly, and Mimir launches into the story.

 

The door opens and Kratos steps into the little house. From outside, he could hear Mimir talking, though it’s not until he’s inside that he is able to make out what the head is saying. He’s regaling Atreus with tales of Greece, and the boy appears wholly enraptured – his quiver leans, half empty, against his bed, and the rest of his arrows are abandoned on top of his furs.

Kratos sets Leviathan in its hook and places his blades down on a table. He’s sporting new leather pauldrons, rippling with magic, and enhanced arm guards. He crosses the room and sets a bundle of newly made arrows on Atreus’ bed before moving to stand beside his son.

Atreus sits cross legged on the floor, his face lit up from the stories Mimir is telling him. Kratos drags a chair over and slowly sits, tuning in to the conversation. Mimir is in the middle of telling the tale of Achilles, which sets Kratos a little at ease. The head pauses for just a moment to flash Kratos a reassuring glance, and he relaxes.

When Mimir finishes his tale, Atreus turns to his father, a youthful flee lighting his face. “Mimir told me all about Per–Persephone, and Demeter, and Ach–Ack–Achee–”

“Achilles,” Mimir says, coming to Atreus’ rescue.

“Yeah, him. Does Demeter really make winter because she misses her daughter? And did Persephone choose to go to the Underworld, or was she kidnapped? Mimir won’t tell me which is the truth.”

Kratos looks down at his son for a moment, then reaches out to cup his cheek gently. Atreus looks a little surprised, but he leans slightly into the touch. Kratos remembers holding another child in a similar manner – remembers pushing her away after giving up everything to be reunited with her.

“I do not know,” he says finally, voice low. “But when I met her…she did not seem the type to be so easily apprehended. She seemed to be pleased with her situation. If that answers your question.”

Atreus lifts a hand and rests it lightly on his father’s. He can feel the sadness and guilt radiating outwards from Kratos. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

“What do you think?”

Beneath Atreus, Jörmungandr shifts and gives a low, rumbling groan. Atreus chuckles softly and pats his scale.

“Yeah, me too.”

Atreus made it a mission to learn Jörmungandr’s language, and Mimir made it a mission to teach him. Some of his best memories over the past three years are those where he is simply sitting with Mimir, trying to sound out the strange words and often laughing himself breathless at his mistakes. It’s ridiculous, he often thinks, just how funny the language sounds when he really thinks about it. Almost like his own, but longer and slower. And somehow hilarious.

He remembers the few months a little over a year prior when he simply refused to speak. Anything he couldn’t say with hand gestures or head movements wasn’t worth saying. It had worried his father and Mimir to no end, until Kratos had finally approached the boy about it.

In a cracking voice, Atreus had gushed his fears and concerns that he had been cursed.

It was the first time in a long time that he had seen his father laugh.

He was just growing up, Kratos had told him. Becoming a man. His voice breaking was normal – no curse, no sickness, no problem. Atreus had been relieved beyond words, but he’d still stayed quiet while his voice cracked. In all honesty, it had barely changed – only a touch deeper, and nowhere near as low as his father’s – but the small difference made it a little easier to speak Jörmungandr’s language. Small mercies.

Atreus turns his thoughts back to the Serpent beneath him. He’s been telling Jörmungandr the stories Mimir told him, of his father’s homeland. Jörmungandr listens with what Atreus hopes is willingness – he doesn’t attempt to change the subject or ignore the boy, so he thinks he’s doing okay.

When Atreus finishes his story, he casts his eyes downward. He presses a palm flat to the scale he’s sitting on and rubs his hand absentmindedly across it. Jörmungandr gives a curious, rumbling groan and Atreus sighs.

“I’m worried,” he admits. “About…I don’t even know what. I had a dream – part of a dream – about a white mist.”

Jörmungandr begins speaking, his voice sounding…concerned? Atreus can’t quite pinpoint the emotion. And he can’t understand a word the Serpent is saying, either.

“What?” he asks desperately, shifting from a sitting position into a crouch. “What are you saying? I don’t – I can’t understand you.”

The Serpent keeps speaking, trying again and again to get through to Atreus with words he simply doesn’t understand. The boy fumbles to keep up with Jörmungandr, hoping at least to remember some of the words to ask Mimir later, but he can’t even catch the sounds of them.

“Please, just calm down!” Atreus begs, pressing his palms flat to the Serpent’s scale. He looks down at them, and starts channelling his magic – focussing his intent towards the contact. “Show me! Show me what you’re trying to say.”

Atreus is struck blind, the premonition so forceful and overpowering that he feels like he’s being thrown backwards. It slams into him in the form of a hazy memory. White mist around a writhing white body – long and twisting and _serpentine_. He’s looking down at himself, and the figure in front of him. It’s Thor, he knows, but he doesn’t know how he knows. He doesn’t feel whole – a quick look behind him reveals that his lower half is still made of that same white mist, and it’s emanating from…something. Some _one_.

He feels angry. Angryangryangry _scared_ angryangryangry. His body writhes and curls around the god in front of him, and he’s angry at him. All his emotion is focussed on the god, except for the fear, which is focussed on something…someone…else.

Atreus’ eyes snap open and he’s _falling_.

It feels like that time three years ago when he came to hanging from Baldur’s hand, dangling over the edge of one of Yggdrasil’s branches. He can’t focus on anything tangible. He feels light. Like he’s floating more than falling. He can barely feel the wind rushing around him.

He remembers once, years ago, his mother telling him that at a certain height, falling into water was essentially the same as falling onto solid ground. That it would bruise him and break his bones. Jörmungandr’s raised head was, undoubtedly, above that point. Logic dictates that he should change his shape into that of a bird – any bird will do – and fly away before he can hit the water. But Atreus is well and truly out of it, and all semblance of logic has escaped him.

And so he falls.

Then there are scales beneath him, and they/re moving at the same pace he was. Somewhere in the back of his mind he has the sense to be grateful, armed with the knowledge that slamming into solid scales would have done more damage than hitting the water at his speed.

His descent begins to gradually slow, until he’s stopped altogether. Atreus looks down, and he’s aware enough to realise that he’s lying on Jörmungandr’s head, and that the Serpent ended up half submerged in an attempt to keep Atreus from falling.

Jörmungandr lifts his head slowly and gives a concerned growl. Atreus pats the scale beneath him lightly as a sign of reassurance and closes his eyes. He tries to pin together the foggy details of his dream with the startling vision he snatched from Jörmungandr’s past, but his mind is still foggy and he’s still struggling to form a coherent thought.

It takes him much longer to come back from that premonition than the one on the World Tree. He doesn’t know how long, but by the time he sits up the sun is doing it’s very best to set. He thinks he came to speak to Jörmungandr in the early afternoon. He’s not entirely sure.

When Atreus finally stands up, Jörmungandr gives a long, low groan that seems almost apologetic. Atreus leans down to rub his scale reassuringly, before shifting his form into that of a falcon. He’s a little unsteady on the take-off, and lands almost as soon as he’s able to, but it’s something more than the plummeting he was doing who-knows-how-long ago, and that’s a little reassuring.

 

Atreus dreams of Thor.

He dreams first of himself and his father, running out into the snow to the sight of Thor. He dreams second of the white mist, writhing and coiling and alive. Of the solid figure being formed from it – Jörmungandr, he realises. He can’t see just what is creating the mist, and it infuriates him – or it would, if he weren’t so overcome with rage and desperation and sadness. He can feel his hands shaking even as they press against something solid, can feel his lower lip quivering even as he recites an unknown word into the empty air.

He’s surrounded by the mist. He looks down at the thing his hands are pressing against and he can’t see it for the white. But he can feel his hands and his lips and his chest burning with an inner fire that seems to be leeching out of him with each passing second, into the air around him. And it’s then that he realises that the mist is coming from him.

Atreus wakes up with a pitiful wail and the itch burning under his skin. He throws himself from the bed, stumbling mindlessly out into the early morning. He falls to his knees in the snow, wrapping his arms around himself and curling his fingers around his forearms. Maybe if he can hold on tight enough he can hold himself together, hold himself in one skin.

The wind howls around him, fresh snow falling much faster than the day before. The tears freeze on his cheeks, the sting so painful it’s almost a burn. He’s shaking madly, but it’s not from the cold. His body refuses to obey him and instead attempts to shift uncontrollably.

“No,” Atreus whimpers, almost a plea. He blinks, and he’s moved. He’s closer to the trees, and there’s a line carved through the snow behind him as though something heavy dragged itself forwards. His bloodied hands are balled into fists in the reddened snow, and there are fresh lacerations on his forearms like the scratches of an animal’s claws.

His whole body begins to shift again, warping to fur then scales then flesh again as he alternates between animals, and parts of animals, and human, and not-quite-human.

“No!” he begs again, and the word becomes a scream of pain as he loses control. Then he’s wrapped in his father’s arms, and even as he writhes and kicks and screams, Kratos holds him tight. Even as Atreus’ body warps and changes beyond his control, Kratos holds him. Even when claws and talons and fangs break through skin and blood flows freely down Kratos’ arms, he keeps Atreus flush against his chest and holds him tight.

Finally, mercifully, when Atreus wears himself out – when his head hangs forwards and his body goes limp and he sucks in shuddering breaths – Kratos still holds his son close, still keeps his arms wrapped protectively around his son.

Atreus seems to flicker in and out of consciousness. Kratos stays motionless on the ground for a moment, ensuring his son will not suddenly burst to his feet or lash out again. When the only movement he makes is the fluttering of his eyelids, Kratos scoops the boy up into his arms and carries him back into the house. He binds first the boy’s wounds, and then his own, then lays his son down into his bed again to rest.

 

When Atreus opens his eyes again it’s to the dark of night. His arms sting slightly, and after a dazed moment he is able to recall the events of the morning. Did he sleep through the entire rest of the day? Surely he can’t have. If he did, he didn’t dream. And he would have been asleep for almost a full day. He wouldn’t mind the extra rest if he actually woke up feeling refreshed, but he just feels more tired.

The dream comes back to him, and Atreus feels his throat close over. He was creating the mist. The Serpent. And his hands, pressing against…something. He doesn’t understand, not fully. He has an idea, though it isn’t one he wants to entertain. But he needs to find out if he’s right. He can only hope he isn’t.

Kratos is asleep in a chair beside his bed. He looks exhausted, and he’s sleeping heavily – it’s no great task to unhook the Bifröst crystal from his belt and slip past him. Atreus walks silently to Mimir and crouches so he’s level with the head.

“Mimir,” Atreus whispers, as loud as he dares. “Mimir.”

The head begins to stir, and Atreus clamps a hand over his mouth. Mimir’s eyes snap open and he looks panicked, but he quickly takes in Atreus’ expression, and his own softens. Atreus slowly removes his hand and lifts Mimir by the rope tied around his horns. He carries the head outside, silently shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing, lad?” Mimir asks, voice quiet, once they’re outside.

“I need to go to Jötunheimr. There’s something there I need to see.”

Mimir studies him for a moment before drawing his lips into a straight line. “Would this happen to have anything to do with what happened this morning?”

Atreus nods. “Yes. I saw…something. I’m not entirely sure, and I need to check. Brok and Sindri said I’d find what I’m looking for in Jötunheimr.”

“Your da will worry if he wakes to find you gone.”

“We’ll be quick.”

Mimir sighs softly, and Atreus has the feeling he would be shrugging if he still had shoulders. “Seems I don’t have much of a choice, then?”

“I’m sorry Mimir, but I really need to see what this is. Please?” Atreus whispers.

“Aye, lad – go for it. But if your da catches you, I had no hand in this.”

Atreus snorts softly as he attaches Mimir to his belt, “You don’t have any hands – period.”

 

Jötunheimr seems different at night. Almost serene. Almost beautiful. Atreus can almost ignore the corpses that litter the sand. He doesn’t look at them.

As soon as Atreus touches a hand to the rope bridge, he sees himself inside. There’s a large red cloth hanging from the ceiling. He can’t believe he never noticed it before. The premonition ends, and he’s already surging forwards. Atreus bursts into the mountain, eyes locking on the cloth. Beneath it lies what he’s looking for – he’s sure of it.

Atreus runs up the stairs, leaping out onto the landing. He doesn’t know why he’s so eager to see just what’s behind the cloth when he knows it’s nothing good, but he can’t stop himself from pulling away the scarlet fabric.

As it flutters to the ground beside him, Atreus locks his attention onto the carving.

He wants to scream. He sobs instead. His legs give out and he sinks to his knees, then doubles over so that he’s curling in on himself. He wails pitifully, his cries broken by defeated sobs. He can barely breathe but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore. He doesn’t want to breathe – he wants to just stop existing because he never wants to live out the scene carved above him.

Jörmungandr forming in front of him, a writhing white mass above a body – a dead body – his _father’s dead body_. He’s cradling his father in his lap as he creates the World Serpent. A life for a life, but it’s not worth it, it’s not worth it, _it’s not worth it_!

Somehow, Atreus stays human. His body doesn’t even try to shift. His mind doesn’t even try to shut off coherent thought. And it’s the worst torture of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A definitive list of people I like to torture:  
> 1\. myself  
> 2\. everyone else


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus makes a couple of rash decisions, and finds Mimir isn't the only one who can be a voice of reason.

Atreus leaves his home.

It won’t be for long. He knows as soon as he steps onto the path leading away. He was certain of it the second he made mention to his father, though it was only confirmed as he put the house and his entire youth behind him.

He leaves in the futile hope of preventing his father from the future the Jötnar saw. Of preventing the future in the mural from taking place. He knows his efforts are in vain – Ragnarök is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and for all he knows his decision to leave may be what sparks the fire. But still he clings to the hope that if he is not near his father, he cannot find himself cradling his cold body in his arms.

Atreus doesn’t say why he wants to leave. He doesn’t even tell his father he returned to Jötunheimr, though he suspects Kratos knows and chooses to say nothing. He packs his bags while his father sleeps, and when the man awakes, Atreus tells him of his decision. Kratos doesn’t try to dissuade him, only ensures Atreus is definite in his decision to leave.

He is.

Atreus assures his father he will return safely. While it’s a promise no one can truly make, he is probably the most qualified to make it. And so he leaves – takes his bow, his quiver, his knife and a small bag of food and clothes, and just walks away. The snow picks up as he steps off the path, as though the world knows what he is trying to do – knows he is attempting to stop the inevitable. As though it’s trying to hold him back. Atreus simply closes his eyes, and soldiers on.

 

“You’re fidgeting.”

Kratos looks up at Mimir, who is watching him with a keen gaze. He cannot deny the statement – since Atreus left, he has not been able to keep still. The first day went by as usual, ignoring the occasional, forgetful call to Atreus. It was on the second day that Kratos began to feel unnerved. He chopped fresh firewood, and then spent time meticulously sharpening Leviathan. When that task was finished, he organised the wood. Then gathered all of Atreus’ clothes and washed them, even the clean ones. When he’d cleaned them, he laid them out to dry, pacing the room they hung in as though it would make the time pass faster. The next day he went out hunting – regardless of the large amount of food they had left over from Atreus’ last hunting trip – and returned carrying a wolf. He skinned it meticulously and spent much more time than necessary treating the hide. When he ran out of tasks to keep himself occupied, Kratos finally resorted to simply pacing.

“I am concerned,” he admits, stopping in the middle of the room.

“He can handle himself,” Mimir assures. “Though, it is a little concerning that he just took off like that.”

Kratos considers his words for a moment before finally saying, “The night before he left – he was not in Midgard, was he?”

“Was it that obvious?”

Kratos crosses the room and takes a seat by Mimir. “Where did he go?”

“He went to Jötunheimr. It was about the dreams he was having. The dwarves told him there was something there to explain them.”

“What was it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest! He left me in the Travel Room when he went to look. I lost track of how long it took him to come back, but when he did he was straight-faced and trying to hide the fact he’d been crying. Reckon he’d already made up his mind to leave by then.”

Kratos sighs and clasps his hands together in his lap. “Why would he leave? What could scare him away?”

“I dread to think.”

They slip into a heavy silence. Kratos is about to resume his pacing when Mimir speaks up again.

“The day before he left – what happened to him?”

“You do not know?”

“I woke up to his screaming. If there were ever a sound more likely to freeze your blood, I’m yet to hear it.”

Kratos huffs softly and turns his head away. Mimir supposes he won’t get an answer, but after a couple of minutes, Kratos begins to softly recount what had happened.

“He was…changing. That thing he does, where he can’t control it. But I think he was trying to, and couldn’t. It was happening in parts.”

“Parts?”

“It was a little hard to see. He was writhing about in my arms. But I could make out…patches, would be the best way of describing it. Spots along his body where the skin was replaced – fur, feathers, scales, all the things he usually turns into. But only in parts. And his voice – his face and neck kept trying to change, so his voice came out like howls and screeches.”

“Trust me brother, I heard as much.”

Kratos nods slowly and looks down at his hands. “He seemed in pain. And he looked…pitiful.” It hurts him to call his son by such a term, but really, it’s the only word that fits.

“I don’t doubt it. I believe he was trying to control Loki again.”

“Again?”

“He didn’t tell you?” When Mimir’s only answer is a raised eyebrow, he continues, “The last time he went hunting, when he brought back the hare and the boar – they weren’t the only things he found.”

“What do you mean?”

“He found a doe, and her fawn. It was injured – couldn’t run. He wanted to kill it, but didn’t.”

Kratos considers Mimir’s words for a moment. He sighs and stands up, folding his arms across his chest. “He resisted Loki, then?”

“If by ‘resisting Loki’ you mean ‘healed the fawn instead of killing it, regardless of what his inner thoughts were telling him to do’ then yes, he did.”

“His inner thoughts?”

“You know what Loki is, don’t you?”

“Another mentality. The one he adopted among the Æsir.”

“Aye, you’re not wrong. But he’s more than that. There’s a reason the Jötnar refer to him as Loki and not Atreus. They’re two different people, but at the same time, they’re one single person. The sooner Atreus acknowledges that, the easier things will be for him.”

Kratos exhales slowly and drops his arms. “It is not so easy to accept the darker parts of yourself.”

“I know. And I know you understand how he’s feeling. But being Loki is different than being the Ghost of Sparta. You can move on from what you were, but he should never deny who he is.”

“Is that why he is struggling? Why it’s so hard for him to function, with Loki buried?”

“It’s a part of it. The Jötnar would still speak through him whether he denied being Loki or not, though they may tell him different things. He’d still have the nightmares about what he did for the Æsir. He’d still see the visions. But his magic, his shifting, his homicidal tendencies – they’d all be easier to handle if he were more accepting of himself.”

Kratos goes to speak, then pauses and says instead, “They would tell him different things?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said the Jötnar would tell him different things if he accepted Loki. What different things?”

“Ah.” Mimir exhales slowly. “From what I can make out, they’re trying to convince him to accept himself. Only, they’re all dead, and their spirits are most likely suffering in Helheim. It’s a wonder they can gather enough consciousness to tell him even what they have. But the things they say aren’t enough for him. I think they’re only scaring him more.”

“How so?”

“They call out to him – to Loki – without explaining why. Without having enough conscious thought to tell him what they want. And of course, he connects it with what he did when he called himself Loki…”

Kratos sighs as Mimir trails off. “And he just represses it more.”

“Indeed.”

“What can we do?”

“I don’t know, brother. It’s…difficult. Loki plays a pivotal role in Ragnarök, whether or not Atreus wants him to. Should worse come to worst…”

“Yes?” Kratos presses.

“You know the times when Loki takes control? When Atreus can’t choose to do anything? It will be like that. Perhaps permanently.”

“And if Atreus accepts that Loki is a part of himself?”

“They’ll achieve a harmony, of sorts. Simultaneous control. When Loki takes over Atreus will still have control, just as Loki will still have control when Atreus takes charge.”

“I thought you said they were the same person.”

Mimir struggles for words before finally giving a resigned sigh. “They’re two parts of one whole, brother. The Jötnar, and the god – well, god-and-mortal. It’s…difficult to explain. You just need to understand that life will be much easier for Atreus if he accepts this part of himself.”

Kratos huffs softly and folds his arms across his chest. He first walks across the room, then back. He repeats the action, and again, and again until he’s just pacing, backwards and forwards, in an attempt to drown out his own thoughts.

 

“You must be Atreus.”

The boy stops, hand moving slowly to his knife. He looks around, but can see no one.

“Your father told me about you. Not much, though.”

“Show yourself.”

“I’m not hiding.”

He looks up, locking on to the location of the voice. He can see, in the shadows, the silhouette of a figure crouching on a branch. He can feel, even from a distance, the energy and power radiating from them.

The figure leaps down and Atreus rests his fingertips on the hilt of his knife. Then they stand up, and his hand falls away. They briefly maintain eye contact, then Atreus’ expression slips into a smile.

“I don’t know how he didn’t notice it straight away,” he says, shoulders dropping as he relaxes. “You look so much like her.”

Hnoss’ eyes widen and surprise flashes across her face. “He told you about me?”

“Of course. You didn’t think he would?”

“He didn’t seem the type.”

“He told me you helped him. When he was trying to find me.”

Hnoss studies Atreus for a moment before beckoning him over. She takes a seat on a fallen tree trunk and he sits beside her.

“I was beginning to wonder if he would ever find you.”

“He found me.”

“No, no. You found him. Then you found yourself. And then he found you.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

Hnoss looks at Atreus as though considering something, then turns her head out to look in front of them. “Did your father tell you,” she starts, voice slow, “what Heimdallr did to him?”

“No,” Atreus replies, voice low.

“He beat him within an inch of his life. Had your father utterly at his mercy. Teleported him away and left him for dead in the snow. Left him to stumble home, bruised and bleeding and broken.”

“He did _what_?” Loki growls, voice dangerous and eyes wide. He curls forwards, almost as though ready to spring up at any second, and his hands curl into fists.

“Well, hello,” Hnoss murmurs, leaning towards him. “I was wondering when you’d show up. You’re going to have to get that under control.”

“Where is he?” Loki snaps, standing hurriedly. He glares daggers down at Hnoss. “Show me where he is. I’ll flay him alive!”

“That’s my best friend you’re talking about,” Hnoss replies, voice eerily calm, as she moves slowly to stand.

“Really? He abandoned you.”

“He had no choice.” The goddess folds her arms behind her back and stares up at Loki, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Not like you.”

Loki’s eyes widen and Atreus sinks back down onto the log. “You’re right,” he murmurs, resting his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Hnoss nudges him lightly with her foot. “Don’t you get all mopey on me now, kid. You’re doing well.”

“I’m – really not,” Atreus replies, looking up at her. She takes a seat beside him and nudges his shoulder lightly with her own.

“You’re going your best. But listen…you need to do more.”

Atreus buries his face in his hands and gives a low groan.

“No, listen to me.” Hnoss takes his shoulders and turns his torso towards her. Atreus lowers his hands slightly. “You’re doing well, I will admit that. But what happened just then? That is proof that you need to be doing better. Loki is a part of you, Atreus. Just as you are a part of him.”

“I don’t want to hear this.” Atreus tries to stand, but before he can lift himself even an inch, Hnoss pushes him back down with a strength he never would have guessed she possessed.

“Too bad. It’s important. It’s important for _you_ , and it’s important for _everyone_. I’m sure Mimir tried to be all nice and comforting – oh don’t give me that look, I know what the man’s like and he was hanging on your father’s belt the first time we met – and tried to ease you into accepting yourself. Well, it doesn’t work that way. There is a problem, and you need to fix it. For everyone’s sake.”

“What are you talking about?” Atreus snaps, trying to pull away from Hnoss. She holds fast to his shoulders.

“The coming of Loki is foretold, kid – not the coming of Atreus. One way or another, Loki will be at Ragnarök. You have to decide how he gets there.”

They share a moment of tense eye contact, before Hnoss finally releases Atreus’ shoulders. He feels the sudden absence of pressure and knows his shoulder will bruise where her fingers dug in.

He stands up, and she rises to her feet beside him. For a moment, neither of them moves. Then Atreus rolls his shoulders to try and alleviate some of the ache, and Hnoss exhales tiredly.

“How did you find me?” Atreus asks, if only to distract them both.

“Desire,” Hnoss murmurs, and the boy raises an eyebrow. “Your desire. And his. For acceptance, for understanding, for safety. You’re overflowing with it. Makes you rather easy to find.”

Atreus folds his arms across his chest and sighs softly, turning his head away. “Right,” he murmurs.

Hnoss rests a hand gently on Atreus’ shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile. “Everything will be alright, Atreus. Just as it is foretold, everything will be alright.”

“Just as it is foretold,” Atreus repeats, letting his hands drop. “You’re very confident.”

“I suppose I am.”

“How? How can you be?”

Hnoss shrugs. “When you lose everything, it’s not hard to be optimistic. You can only gain.”

Atreus looks away, his throat tightening. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Hnoss closes her eyes and chuckles softly. “I don’t think anyone really is.”

 

Atreus wakes up, blinking slowly. He’s momentarily confused – wondering why the foliage around him is so much thicker than it should be – until he remembers that he tied himself to a branch to sleep the night before.

Something other than his dreams woke him. It takes him a moment to register what it is – takes his ears a moment to register the sound of voices among the regular noises of the forest.

Atreus waves his hand and retracts the magic keeping the vines wound around him. He shimmies carefully down the trunk of the tree and follows the sound of voices. As he grows closer, he finds that the voices are shouting. He begins to feel anger and fear radiating out from the direction of the shouts.

There are people. Humans, standing not far away. Two groups of two people, each pair yelling at the other. They clutch weapons, but it doesn’t seem like any of them really know how to use them. Three carry knives, and the fourth wields a small axe. They look like they’re about to descend on each other.

“Hey!” Atreus shouts, and they all freeze. They turn to look at him. He can make out clearly now that he’s looking at four men.

“Who –” one begins gruffly, but Atreus cuts him off.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, striding forwards. “Why are you fighting?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, kid, Ragnarök is coming,” the tallest man snaps. He has a crooked scar across his left eye.

“Yeah,” Atreus replies, “I know!” His mouth twists involuntarily into a disappointed sneer. “Better than most.”

“Kid thinks he’s smart,” says the shorter of the two men standing opposite the first. The man with the scar across his eye – Atreus dubs him that, _Scar_ , just to make it easier for himself – seems to remember they’re there and swivels to face them.

“You’re still here?” he snaps, lifting his knife again. The man at his side raises his axe.

“We won’t abandon our own land.”

“It isn’t yours!” says the man with the axe. The fingers of his empty hand shake.

 _Twitch_ , Atreus dubs him.

“ _Alright_!” the boy snaps, drawing their attention back to him. “What is going on?”

“None of your business, kid, now beat it before you get caught up in affairs you’ve got no place in.”

“You’re the first humans I’ve seen in years,” Atreus says, taking a step forwards. “We were forced to kill the last ones we ran in to. Don’t make me do the same again.”

The men all burst out laughing. “As if you could kill anyone.”

“I’m more than you think I am.”

“You’re a child.”

“My father says in his land, the boys my age are men.”

“Your father’s a liar, then.”

Atreus shrugs lightly. “Of course he is. But I’ve never met a man who wasn’t. Tell me – why are you fighting? Shouldn’t you be coming together? Helping each other? You don’t need to turn on your fellow men when you can help each other survive.”

“It’s Fimbulwinter,” says one of the men opposite Scar and Twitch. He’s been silent up until this point. His voice is heavy and dark. Wise. “There is no surviving. There is only trying. We may have survived this long, but no one will come out of Ragnarök alive. Everyone wants to be the one to live the longest, survive the furthest, but we’re all going to die in the end. We’re all just so afraid of it that we push others before ourselves, killing them before they can kill us.”

Atreus stands silent, words lost. The three other men have turned to look at the first – Atreus cannot think of a name to dub him because nothing can come close to describing him – who has set his mouth in a straight line and lowered the hand holding the knife.

Scar finally gives a groan and straightens, grip on his knife tightening. “Whatever! Your fancy words won’t get you out of this. You’re on our land, you’re in our way, and you’ve wasted time we could have spent finding food. So enough talk!”

Twitch snaps out of his stupor and raises his axe. The other two men – the nameless one and his smaller companion, who Atreus dubs Grouch due to his seemingly continual sneer – raise their own weapons, though the nameless man takes a step backwards rather than following Grouch forwards.

Atreus steps in, meaning to freeze them all before they can act, but Twitch brings his axe down at the same second and it bites deeply into Atreus’s left shoulder. He gives a sharp, echoing cry and hears the men all curse.

“Fuck –” Twitch starts, and before he can finish, Loki snaps his right hand out and catches him around the throat. He lifts the man off his feet, holding him out, and _grins_. Twitch screams, fingers clawing at Loki’s hand, and Scar and Grouch rush to help.

“ _St_ _ǫ_ _ð_ _va_ ,” Loki utters, mouth still formed into that same wicked grin, and twitches his fingers slightly towards the other men. They’re instantly frozen, though it’s impossible to tell in the unnamed man as he didn’t even step forwards.

“What the fuck?” Twitch is whispering, eyes wide and voice frantic. “Who – what the fuck are you?”

“Loki,” the boy hisses, tightening his grip ever so slightly. He hears Twitch whimper, and hears the uttered curses from the others. Loki looks down at the axe still embedded in his collarbone. He lifts his left hand with a grunt and takes hold of the handle before tearing it from his flesh. Blood begins to spout from the wound, but the flow stops just as soon as it begins with an almost _disinterested_ utter of, “ _Heill_.”

“Let me go,” Twitch pleads. “I’m begging you.”

Loki looks up into his eyes, straight-faced. Then smirks.

“ _Then beg_.”

He begins to squeeze, and Twitch tries in vain to wheeze out pleas.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Loki asks, pulling Twitch closer to him. “I can’t quite hear you.”

“Let him go!” Scar begs, and Loki sighs softly.

“As you wish.”

He tosses Twitch aside, and the man slams forcefully into a tree. Scar gives a broken cry and tries desperately to move forwards against Loki’s magic. Loki smirks and releases the man. He stumbles forwards, not having expected he would suddenly regain use of his limbs, and practically crashes into Twitch as he pulls the man’s body towards him.

Loki turns towards Grouch, who looks like he’s about to cry.

“Please,” the man whispers, fear lacing his voice. “Please, let me go. I didn’t hurt you.”

“You know who I am?”

“Loki. You’re Loki.”

“You know who Loki is?”

“I’ve heard the prophecies.”

“And what do they say about me?”

Grouch whimpers, and Loki narrows his eyes. “I don’t have all day.”

“You brought Fimbulwinter. You’ll bring Ragnarök.”

“I already know that. Are you really of any use to me?”

“The Jötnar!” Grouch cries, panicked, as though he only just remembered. “Loki leads the Jötnar to Asgard.”

Loki glares at Grouch, and the man’s expression becomes – impossibly – more afraid.

“The Jötnar are dead,” Loki whispers, dropping his hand. The magic around Grouch and the unnamed man returns to him and the pair are released. Grouch falls to his knees and stares down into the snow with wide, frantic eyes.

The unnamed man stands watching him. Loki raises his eyes to match his gaze.

“They call to you,” the man says, and Loki is struck again by just how wise his voice sounds. “You must listen to them.”

“How do you know?”

“You _must_ listen to them, Loki. For all our sakes.”

He turns around and walks away from Loki, into the trees. His knife drops to the ground and he passes silently into the shadows and out of sight.

Loki wonders if he’s even human.

 

“I told you you’d have to get that under control.”

Atreus looks up at Hnoss. She’s sitting on a low branch, legs dangling over the edge and ankles crossed.

“How do you even know what I did?”

“I have my ways,” she replies, dropping down beside him. Hnoss folds her arms and turns her head slightly away.

Atreus drops his head and screws his eyes shut. He tries to forget the man, laying broken in his friend’s arms. Forget the fact that he caused it.

“How do I stop him?” Atreus whispers, rubbing his wrists anxiously together.

“You don’t,” Hnoss murmurs, stepping closer. She rests a hand gently on his arm and he looks down at her. “You don’t.”

 

Atreus speaks for the Jötnar again.

When he wakes up, his throat is hoarse and his limbs ache. Hnoss is still fast asleep in the canopy a few metres away. Atreus groans softly and pushes himself up. Rather than risk falling while trying to climb down with his stiff limbs, Atreus just directs the vines holding him to lower him to the ground.

Atreus steps off the vines and drops to his knees before letting himself fall forwards into the snow. It’s cold – mercifully so, as the burn in his limbs begins to ebb and numb after a few minutes. Atreus rolls over so his face isn’t pressed into the snow and sighs softly, closing his eyes.

“They really love you.”

“What?” Atreus asks, opening his eyes.

“The Jötnar. They sure love speaking through you.” Hnoss hangs by her knees from a low-hanging branch. She meets Atreus’ gaze and smiles. “They were saying all sorts of things through you.”

“You understand them?”

“Oh, no. No, not a word.” She snorts softly. “But you were saying lots of different things. A few time you’d say the same thing twice but mostly you never repeated anything.”

“That’s…strange. Father says I usually just say one thing, over and over.”

“Well, they did say your name a lot. Sorry – Loki’s name. A lot. But other than that…” She shrugs, which is a rather peculiar thing to see upside down. “All different words.”

“I wonder why,” Atreus murmurs, sitting upright. “I wonder _how_.”

“Can’t have been easy for them. Odin would never allow their souls to grace his halls – even those that died in battle were sent to Helheim. Odin has no mercy for the Jötnar. And for them to tell you anything at all from Helheim is a feat of its own – let alone so many different things in such a short time.”

Atreus bites his lip. “It must have been important. But…I don’t remember any of it. I never remember any of it – their words are wasted on me.”

Hnoss considers it for a moment before she grabs hold of the branch, unhooks her legs and flips to the ground. “Why don’t you try something else?”

“Like what?”

“Well, have they ever spoken to you in your tongue?”

“Once. Father told me they our language once.”

“Try it again. Try sleeping again, but put the intent into your language, not theirs.”

“I don’t know how. And besides, I’m not tired anymore.”

“Just try. And you’re joking, right? You look about ready to collapse.” Hnoss begins walking, waving for Atreus to follow her. He jogs after her for a few minutes, until she stops at a pile of boulders. Hnoss pulls herself up onto the flattest one she can find and beckons Atreus over.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying something my mother once taught me. Here, lay your head on my lap.”

Atreus moves to follow her instructions, and closes his eyes and he feels Hnoss’ fingertips press to his temples. She begins chanting softly under her breath. Atreus goes to ask what she’s doing, but the words die in his throat. He feels suddenly heavy, and drained – impossibly tired.

He’s asleep in moments, and Hnoss retracts her hands. She waits silently for the Jötnar to reach out to him again, and is soon rewarded by hushed, frantic whispers.

“He is Loki,” say the Jötnar through Atreus. “He will join us. He is Loki. He will join us. He is Loki. _He will join us_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long, school has been owning my ass  
> I'm also dealing with a messy breakup after dumping my toxic now-ex boyfriend so yAY FUN TIMES  
> I keep imagining the people Atreus interacts with as being taller than him when nO, I wrote him up to Kratos' shoulder in the first book ugh character continuity   
> and??  
> my brain: his voice will have broken he's fifteen now  
> my heart: my sweet sunshine boy my angel my baby keep the young voice  
> thoughts on this and future chapters?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Atreus grows a little closer to new friends, old friends, and himself.

Atreus adjusts his position on the rock he crouches on and dips his fur vest back into the river. He scrubs at the blood that still clings stubbornly to the fur, scratching his nails through the pelt to try and lift it. The water around his hands momentarily tints pink, before the blood is washed away in the fast-flowing current.

There’s a tear in the shoulder of both the vest and his tunic where the axe cut through, and without a needle and thread he has no hope of fixing them. He’s changed into one of the other two outfits he brought with him, but he knows he can only go so long without patching up the first.

Atreus pulls the dripping wet vest from the river, finally satisfied that he’s cleaned off all the blood he can. He drapes it over a flat rock, beside the already-washed tunic, and stands up, drying his hands on his pants.

“How’s it going?” Hnoss asks, stepping out of the trees with a bundle of wood in her arms. She crouches behind Atreus and he moves the join her, shifting the snow to reach the dirt underneath. Hnoss begins to place the kindling down while Atreus scoops the snow into a ring around it.

“Finally got the blood out,” he replies, sitting back on his haunches. “But the axe went right through the cloth. I don’t suppose you’d have a needle and thread on you?”

Hnoss gives him a humoured smile. “Really? Look at me, and tell me I look like the type of person to carry a needle and thread.”

She dumps the rest of the wood haphazardly beside the carefully constructed pile and stands, holding her arms out to make her point. Atreus drags his gaze across her clothes, from the white tunic – cuffed with gold bangles and adorned with plated armour at the stomach – to the leather pants, bound almost carelessly about her legs, and finally to the long waistcloth, tied about her waist and falling from beneath a sturdy belt, on which she sports a sword almost identical to Freya’s.

“Point made,” Atreus says as he stands opposite her, his lips twitching into a smile.

Hnoss returns the smile before looking up at the sky. “Quickly, there’s a storm coming. I’ll get started on the fire while you find something to eat.”

“I think I saw fish in the river,” Atreus says, turning around while Hnoss kneels again. He draws an arrow from his quiver and holds it out. “ _Darraðr_ ,” he murmurs, and golden magic surrounds the arrow, spreading out along either end to form the shape of a spear.

Atreus steps out onto the rocks where his still-wet clothes are lying, then out past them onto the few rocks sticking up above the surface of the water. He pauses on a suitable one in the middle of the river and waits, with baited breath, for a fish to pass by.

When a fish finally swims close enough, Atreus drives the spear downwards at the same time he utters, “ _St_ _ǫ_ _ð_ _va_.” The fish freezes in place and he is able to catch it on the spear. He releases the magic holding it and draws the writhing creature out of the water, waiting for it to go limp before removing it from the spear and tossing the body onto the bank. He repeats the action a few more times until he has caught enough fish to keep Hnoss and himself sated through the storm.

In the time he was away, Hnoss managed to light the fire and arrange the store of remaining wood into a pile for later. When Atreus drops the fish at her side she’s widening the circle of earth, pushing the snow away from the dirt and brittle grass to form a ring around them.

“What are you doing?” Atreus asks as he begins sifting through the pile of wood.

“You don’t want to sleep in snow, do you? The fire will melt anything close enough, too, so we’d wake up sopping wet. It’s not exactly a pleasant experience.”

“There are easier ways to keep ourselves warm, you know.” Atreus smiles as he pulls out two suitable sticks from the pile. He holds up his hand and utters, “ _Spaði_.” Immediately his magic begins to take the shape of a small hand spade, and he begins stabbing away at the frozen earth with it.

“Really?” Hnoss asks, cocking an eyebrow. “I’d love for you to tell me these ways. And just what are you doing?”

Atreus doesn’t immediately reply. When he appears satisfied with the hole he is digging, he lifts the first of the two sticks he chose and drives it down into the hole. He begins packing the earth tightly around it, filling the hole he made and securing the stick in place. “ _Frjósa_ ,” he says, pressing his fingers to the overturned earth, and it freezes again.

“No, really, what are you doing?”

“Trust me.” Atreus begins pulling the cord away from one of his pant legs and lays it out across the ground. He takes a moment to give himself an approximate measurement, then begins digging a second hole a few centimetres in from the end.

“I think the cold has gone to your brain.”

“Just keep widening the circle,” Atreus replies, chuckling softly.

“Oh, but I thought there were better ways to do it?”

“There are, but I’m busy.”

Hnoss doesn’t miss the satisfied smirk on Atreus’ face, and she can’t help but snort. “Alright, alright. But don’t leave me to do all the hard work here.”

Atreus laughs at that – a soft, happy laugh that sparks something warm inside Hnoss. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my fair share.”

Once he’s planted the other stick in the ground and frozen it in place, Atreus begins tying each end of the cord to one of the sticks. Then he crosses the snow to the rocks where he put his clothes and carries them back, before hanging them over the cord. Hnoss watches on with a curious expression.

“My mother taught me this, one of the times she took me hunting,” he says, adjusting the clothes so as much as possible catches the heat of the fire. “Not the freezing the ground part, of course – but all the rest.”

“Alright.” Hnoss sits back on her haunches. “Now what?”

“We’ll need some form of shelter.” Atreus turns away from Hnoss and holds his hands out.

“Right, I know that much. So why are you –?”

“ _Greiða_!” Atreus cries, and he’s making such a show of it that Hnoss can’t help but smile. She notices the child-like joy that overcomes Atreus as he twists the growing vines into a suitable shelter. He forms a dome over and around them, and as the vines burst up from the ground they push aside the lingering snow. Finally, the vines – the massive, enchanted, _impenetrable_ vines – stop twisting and writhing, and settle into place. They form a dome above the pair, closed off entirely from the approaching storm save for a small gap in the top to let out the smoke and a window-like slip at the side to give them a view of the world outside.

“Well?” Atreus asks, lowering his hands. He’s still beaming, and now so is Hnoss.

“Impressive!” she admits, shifting so she’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. Atreus takes a seat and leans up against the wall of vines, looking out the small gap opposite him.

“Isn’t it?” he teases, dropping his hands into his lap. He doesn’t miss the way Hnoss’ eyes gloss over the shining marks, even as they fade. He chooses not to make mention of it. She’s seen the glow before, but this is the first time he’s caught her – if she hasn’t asked him about it yet, he won’t approach the subject. Instead, he leans forwards to lift one of the fish and again raises his knife.

“Hungry?” Atreus asks, digging the tip of his knife into the fish’s stomach and beginning to slice it open.

“Starved,” Hnoss says, the word coming on a breath out so he almost doesn’t hear it.

Atreus reaches out and plucks one of the large leaves from the vine behind him. He begins removing the organs of the fish and dropping them onto the leaf. Once he’s finished with the first fish, Atreus removes another leaf and places the animal onto it. He reaches for another.

“Can you try to find some sticks suitable for making a spit?” he asks, not looking up from the new fish in his hands.

Hnoss raises an eyebrow and turns her attention to the pile. She begins separating the wood out into separate piles, trying to find two sticks that would work. When she finally comes up empty handed, Atreus is smirking at her.

“Oh, you weasel!” Hnoss slumps back, arms folded, as Atreus laughs. “You knew there were none in there! You just wanted me to sort the wood!”

“Perhaps,” Atreus teases, stifling his laughter. He turns his attention to the pile of fish at his side. He’s finished gutting them all, and their organs all lay in a pile on the leaf beside them. Atreus begins lifting the guts and tossing them into the fire.

“What are you doing?” Hnoss asks, casting a disgusted look down at the pile.

“If we leave them out they’ll start to smell. And they’ll attract whatever wildlife is around.”

“It would bring something for you to hunt, at least.”

“It would bring wolves,” Atreus murmurs, dropping another handful of organs into the fire. He leans away from the plume of smoke and places a few more pieces of wood in for good measure. “I don’t eat wolves. I don’t hunt wolves.”

“You’re wearing their fur,” Hnoss points out, poking absentmindedly at the fire with a long stick.

“I don’t hunt them _anymore_.”

“Why?” When Atreus doesn’t reply, she cocks her head and gives a little sigh. “Go on – humour me?”

Atreus sighs and drops the guts he’s holding. “There’s this carving in Jötunheimr. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it shows me following a wolf.”

“That’s why? Because the Jötnar prophesied that you’d follow a wolf?”

“Sounds crazy, right?”

“No, actually. Or, well – maybe yes, and I’m just used to crazy.” Hnoss shrugs and snaps the stick before tossing it into the fire. “Is that the only reason?”

Atreus hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “I can change my shape.” His voice is slow and hesitant, and Hnoss quiets instantly. “To only a few animals. A snake. A falcon. A fly.” He’s only ever become a fly once, and he remembers bitterly that solitary time.

“And a wolf?” Hnoss guesses.

“It was the first other form I took. I think the Jötnar gave it to me – they told me to change my skin. Just that. _Change your skin_. I didn’t understand exactly what they wanted from me until I let the magic take over. And then I just changed.”

Hnoss studies him silently for a moment. “There’s more to it.”

“Really?”

“I can tell. I’m very good at reading people. At listening to the meaning between the words.”

“Funny, considering how little time you spend around people.” They share a gaze before Atreus sighs and looks away. “Sometimes it’s…different. When I choose to change my shape, I’m myself inside the body of a wolf. I’m still me. Then sometimes I’m…forced, I suppose, into changing. On the really bad days, I can’t control it and it takes over. Those times, I stop being me. I stop being Atreus in a wolf’s body. I _am_ the wolf.” He takes a moment to look down at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers. “I know how they think. How they feel. They’re so different to us – to humans and to gods. The way they act and move and _think_. It’s unbelievable.”

There’s a broadness to Atreus’ words that wasn’t there before, but in the moments after, his eyes flick down and he visibly sags. When he lifts the organs of the next fish and tosses them into the fire, his voice is soft.

“So no. I don’t hunt wolves.”

 

The storm picks up not long after Atreus’ speech. It becomes the only noise in the otherwise silent dome. Atreus looks up from the fire, where he’s again enchanted one of his arrows into a spear and has been using it as a makeshift spit, and casts his gaze out the gap between the vines.

“Should I close it up?” he asks, lifting the spear from the fire and studying the fish. Satisfied that they’re fully cooked, he draws the fish off, one at a time, and places them onto clean leaves.

“Leave it a little. It will undoubtedly grow colder, so you should seal it before the chill sets in. But give it a little time.” Hnoss reaches out to take the fish offered to her with murmured thanks before turning her attention to the gap. She seems almost entranced by the world outside – gaze fixed on the snow and ear trained to the howling wind.

“You seem entertained,” Atreus murmurs, running the blade of his knife across the scales of his first fish to skin it. He lets the scales drop at his side, and starts carefully removing the bones.

“The world is rather entertaining. If you let it be.” Hnoss wastes no time in scaling the fish, but instead opens the slit on its stomach wider and begins taking pieces of the meat between her fingers. “Is it a crime to want to be entertained by it?”

“No.” Atreus flicks his gaze momentarily up to her before returning it to the fish in his hands. “It certainly isn’t.”

“Will we be alright in here?” Hnoss asks, looking up at him. Atreus cocks his head, waiting for her to elaborate. “Can anything get in? And will be even be able to keep warm? We’ll have to leave the hole above open for the smoke to escape, but won’t the snow get in?”

Atreus sets his knife down and holds his now-empty hand, palm out, to the closest vine. He murmurs the spell to bend them to his will and begins to twist his fingers about. The vines move to follow, at once both closing the gap behind Hnoss and rising above the hole in the ceiling, so that the smoke can still escape but the inside of their shelter is safe from the weather.

“Don’t look so smug,” Hnoss chides playfully as she settles back against the vines.

Atreus drops his hand and bites his lip to hide a smile. “I think I’ve earned the right to be.”

“If you say so.”

 

“Hnoss?” Atreus whispers, turning his head towards her. She doesn’t answer, and for a moment Atreus thinks she must have fallen asleep. Then her eyes open slowly and she casts a misty gaze towards him.

“Yes?” Her voice is equally as quiet.

Atreus shifts for a moment, drawing himself closer to the fire. He prolongs the silence by lifting more sticks and placing them in.

“Are you cold?” Hnoss asks, moving to lift the clothes she has draped over her. They’re one of the two spare pairs Atreus brought – the other of which is wrapped around him.

“No,” he says quickly, and she lets them fall back across her curled form. “I’m just…wasting time.”

Hnoss closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her gaze is clearer, and her eyes have softened.

“What did you want to ask me?”

“How did you know?”

“You waited until you thought I was asleep to try. No one waits that long unless they have something important to ask of another.”

Atreus jabs a finger at the frozen dirt and sighs softly. “Why…” He cuts himself off and looks away, hoping for a moment that his whisper was quiet enough that Hnoss would not hear. But she looks at him expectantly, and he finds he must go on. “Why are you staying with me?”

“You do not want my company?”

“That’s not what I said.” Atreus huffs softly and curls a little tighter around himself. “Just…of all the people to stay with, why me?”

Hnoss is silent for an eerily long moment. When she finally does speak, her voice is soft and low. “I could tell you it’s because of your desire. How it radiates so strongly from you that it’s almost impossible to ignore. How it’s so fuelling that to leave you would be foolish, if only because I have never met such a source of power before.”

“Oh,” Atreus says, voice so tiny he wonders if the word even truly passed his lips.

“Or I could tell you the truth.” Hnoss waits until she’s sure she has Atreus’ full attention before she continues. “Because you’re hiding from yourself in an effort to protect the ones you love. Because you were accepting of me, regardless of the people I once knew and the things I am drawn towards. Because you’re just as lost and alone as I am.” She reaches out a hand and presses her fingertips lightly to Atreus’ open palm. “Because you’re a good person.”

Atreus blinks, and he feels the dampness of unshed tears on his eyes. He wipes at them hurriedly and look down at the ground. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Hnoss withdraws her hand.

“Get some sleep,” she says softly, as she drops a few more sticks into the fire. She puts in a larger piece for good measure, too, before lying back down. “You need the rest.”

Atreus shifts into a more comfortable position – which isn’t easy when his only bed is frozen, compact earth – and closes his eyes. It takes a moment for sleep to finally find him.

When it does, he dreams of Thor.

 

Rocks are, as it happens, relatively hard to walk over. Especially on an incline. Especially when they’re only loosely stacked together. Especially when they’re covered in fresh snow.

Atreus learns this fact the hard way.

When he hits the ground after a topple down a slightly-too-high-for-comfort hill, the side of which was all but _adorned_ with tiny pebbles hidden beneath an unassuming layer of snow, Atreus can do nothing but groan in annoyance and mentally curse every decision he made that brought him to this point.

“Are you alright?” Hnoss asks. She stands above him, looking down, without offering to help him up or even trying to hide the delighted smirk on her face.

Atreus’ only response is a louder, more annoyed groan.

“Yeah, you’re alright.”

Hnoss finally reaches out a hand for Atreus to take. He grasps her wrist, then tugs her forcefully downwards so that she lands in a heap in the snow beside him.

“Rude,” Hnoss mutters, biting back laughter.

The pair sit up, and Atreus looks up at the trail he left down the hillside. The snow has been pushed away to reveal the series of stones and pebbles underneath. Atreus can see the point where he fell – the rocks are all dislodged from where he scrambled for a footing after mistakenly thinking the hillside was solid. All that followed was a tumble down through the snow.

“Your clothes,” Hnoss says unhelpfully as she sits up. Atreus looks down at himself and groans yet against as he finds the stones he rolled down cut up not only his fur vest, but the fabric of his tunic and pants, too.

“Fantastic,” he grumbles, sarcasm so heavy it could break the Bifröst.

“You still have another set of clothes, right?” Hnoss asks in an attempt to be helpful.

“Yes, but I can’t just wear the one set every day. I need to get these fixed.”

“You know where to find a needle?”

“I’m not quite ready to go home.”

Hnoss nods in understanding and pushes herself to her feet. When she offers Atreus his hand this time he does not tug her back down, but instead pulls himself up to stand beside her.

“What are you going to do, then?” Hnoss asks, dusting the snow off her clothes.

Atreus thinks for a little while, before reaching for his bag. He removes his one undamaged outfit and walks out of Hnoss’ sight.

“I’m going to find your mother,” he says simply, tossing his damaged clothes aside.

“What?” Hnoss balks. “Do you have a death wish?”

“It’s not that bad. It’ll be fine.”

“You killed her son. She’s been known to hold grudges.”

Atreus steps out and gathers up his torn clothes with a sigh. “Listen,” he says slowly, trying to find the words. “I have to do this. It’s not a want – it’s a need. Ragnarök is coming. I won’t have a lot of time to make peace. I need to talk to her. I don’t expect her to have forgiven me, but I need to at least try and mend the gap.”

Hnoss studies him for a moment before sighing softly. “I’m assuming this was always a plan of yours?”

“I just needed a reason to go to her house.”

“You mean –” Hnoss spins almost violently around, then moves further through the trees. She gives a sharp cry and comes running back. “You’ve been leading us back to her house this whole time!”

Atreus gives a soft chuckle and starts walking in the direction Hnoss ran off in, while she begrudgingly follows. He comes out in the mists near where he and his father first ran into Freya. Hnoss is still berating him for having had the audacity to lead them to her mother’s house under her nose when they come to the twisted vines blocking the passage to Freya’s home.

Hnoss silences herself and looks across at Atreus. “You’re sure you want to do this?” she says quietly.

“I’ll be fine.”

“So, I suppose this is where we part ways.” Hnoss rocks on her heels for a moment. “I’ll hang around for a little. If she tries anything just scream, or something.”

Atreus snorts and elbows Hnoss lightly. “I’ll be _fine_. She won’t try anything.”

“Still. I’ll give you some time. In case you change your mind. Then I’ll go.”

“Will I see you again?” Atreus asks, voice dropping. Hnoss blinks at him for a moment before smiling warmly.

“If you wish. Just desire it, and I’ll know.”

Atreus gives a faint smile and nods, before holding a hand out to the vines. He whispers the spell so softly that Hnoss only sees the faint movement of his lips. He begins to walk before they’ve even opened, then stops and turns around.

“Did you forget somethi–” Hnoss is cut off when Atreus slams into her, throwing his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, then he steps back and runs through the open vines, twisting them closed again behind him.

 

Freya’s garden is just like Atreus remembers it, except for two things. The first is that the large stones carved with runes on the far left of the garden have been pounded to rubble. The second is that this rubble has been shifted and placed carefully to form a sort of shrine around a large stone, which bears an engraving.

Atreus crosses to the stone and runs his fingers lightly over the words engraved into it. He drops his hand away and takes a step back to read it.

 _One at once hated and loved  
_ _Bound by the desire of another  
_ _Unto that which he did not desire  
_ _Lost in and of himself  
_ _And found again in desperate measure  
_ _Come too late  
_ _For this son, brother, friend_

It’s a gravestone, Atreus realises. A gravestone for Baldur. He has to step away and take a few deep breaths before he can even look again at the stone. Atreus reads the engraving again, and again, and again – it’s all he can do.

Finally Atreus is able to tear himself away from the stone and walk towards Freya’s home. It’s been lifted so he can reach the door from the garden, and he wonders if Freya knows he is there. Pushing the thought out of his mind he crosses the garden and steps up to the door. Steeling himself, Atreus knocks.

The door swings open, and there is Freya. She does not look angry, but she doesn’t look overly pleased, either. Atreus wonders if he should just leave now. But then her expression shifts into a subtle smile and she opens the door a little wider.

“Atreus,” Freya says softly, stepping out of his way. “You certainly took your time. I was expecting you a lot sooner. Please, come in.”

Atreus definitely wasn’t expecting that, and he’s so stunned that he momentarily freezes. Then he forces himself to step over the threshold and into the house, and Freya allows the door to close behind him.

“You were…expecting me?” Atreus asks, stopping awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Of course.” Freya moves to the small table and takes a seat, beckoning for him to join her. Atreus walks stiffly towards her and sits in the chair opposite. “We were friends – I could only assume you’d come back here sooner or later.”

“Were?” Atreus swallows thickly.

“Well, we haven’t seen each other in three years. The friendship has worn thin – though, depending on how this meeting goes, I am hoping to rekindle it.”

Atreus nods silently and clasps his hands in his lap. Freya waits for a moment as though expecting him to speak, before realising she’ll have to initiate any conversation that is to come. She stands and crosses the room, returning momentarily with a plate of food which she sets before Atreus.

“So, may I ask why you came here? Any special occasion? I thought you would have shown up at my door sooner.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me here.”

“Well, until a little over a year ago you would have been right.” She sees no point in hiding the fact, and Atreus is actually thankful for her honesty. “Though now I can understand why you did what you did.”

“I don’t expect you to have forgiven me,” Atreus says, and Freya doesn’t reply, but the air between them feels a little clearer.

“So,” she asks again, “why did you come here?”

Atreus gives her a sheepish look and withdraws from his bag the damaged clothing. “I wanted to come see you for a while, but I suppose I needed a reason. And, well, I’m not ready to go home yet just to fix these.”

Freya’s eyes widen a touch. “You ran away from home?”

“Father knew. I talked to him about it. Made sure he was awake to see me go. He knows I’ll come home.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve seen it.” Atreus thumbs at the cloth around his waist. “I’ve seen what happens after I go home.”

“What?”

Atreus shakes his head and looks down, biting his lip. Freya takes the hint and turns her attention to the clothes in his hands. She reaches out for them, and Atreus hands them over.

“What did you do?” she asks, chuckling softly as she rolls the first shirt and pants around in her hands. She takes in all the tiny holes and tears along them, marvelling at just how royally Atreus managed to damage his clothes.

“I tripped down a hill,” Atreus admits, blushing faintly.

Freya’s laughter dies away as she lifts the other shirt. She opens out the cut on the shoulder, then holds the shirt up so that it aligns with Atreus’ torso. He looks away again.

“Are you alright?” Freya asks softly, lowering the shirt into her lap.

“Fine,” Atreus replies, reaching out to take the shirt off her. “I was hoping you’d have a needle and thread.”

“I do indeed.” Freya smiles and stands, walking to the hearth and lifting a small box from on top of it. She returns to the table and sets it down beside the food. “You know how to sew?”

“Mother taught me.” Atreus opens the box and withdraws a needle and suitable thread. He threads the needle and begins to stitch up the cut in the shoulder of the shirt. Freya smiles faintly and lifts a needle of her own, threading it before starting to sew up the tiny cuts and tears on the other shirt.

“You don’t have to –” Atreus tries to argue, but she shushes him and continues sewing.

They slip into an easy silence, which is quickly broken by Freya asking about the time Atreus has spent away from home. He tells her about the things he has done, but not who he has done them with. He neglects to mention that Hnoss kept him company, and purposefully avoids mentioning the small group he ran into that gave him the cut in his shirt. He hides nothing else from her – even telling her of his dreams, with the hope she can make some sense of them. Sadly, she can tell him nothing.

When Atreus finishes sewing the large cut on this shirt, he moves on to the small tears in the pants. It takes him and Freya an embarrassingly long time to repair all the damage – so much so that when they finish, the world outside is dark with night.

“Stay the night,” Freya offers, gathering the newly-fixed clothes. “You should sleep in a real bed, rather than a tree or the snow.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Atreus replies sheepishly, but Freya waves him away.

“Nonsense. It would be my pleasure.” She folds his clothes and lays them at the end of the bed. “Just for the night.”

Atreus hesitates before relenting. It would be nice to spend the night in a real bed before he goes back out into the woods. He’s definitely grown tired of sleeping in the trees and on the ground when the weather allows it. So he accepts the offer, with the thought of enjoying a night of comfort before he returns to the forest.

Only, he doesn’t return to the forest.

Atreus wakes up, feverish, as the sun is rising. He dreamed of Thor, and of Jörmungandr, and of his father dying in his arms, and from the clarity and _reality_ of the dream, he knows it’s happening _tonight_.

 

Atreus tries to be quiet, but he’s panicked and hurried, and probably makes a lot more noise than he’s aware of. He stuffs his clothes into his pack, arranging and rearranging to make them fit in his haste. Then he starts throwing in food – things that will last, and will survive the trip home. It’s while he’s stuffing apples into his bag that Freya wakes.

“Atreus?” she asks softly, blinking her eyes open and looking up at him from the seat where she fell asleep. “What’s happening?”

“I have to go,” he apologises, drawing the string of his pack and stepping towards the door. “I’m sorry, I – I have to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s tonight – I should have gone home earlier – I can’t believe – already – I’m sorry –”

“Atreus, calm down.” Freya stands, starts moving towards him, but he shakes his head.

“I have to go home, I have to see my father before he – before he – before tonight.” He can’t even bring himself to say the word.

Freya studies him a moment before nodding. “Take my boat. It’ll be faster than walking.”

“I can run,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes Freya want to draw him close. But then he shifts, limbs bending and changing, as he drops to all fours. Freya runs to open the door for him, because she knows – she just _knows_ – that Atreus isn’t quite there anymore. He acts like an animal, and when he run away from her and all but leaps the vines, she knows that really, deep down, he is.

 

Atreus shifts back at the edge of the clearing around his home, and it’s a much calmer shift than the panicked, mindless change he faced in Freya’s home. He can see the shadow of his father moving about in the house through the opened door. Atreus smooths his clothes down and makes sure he’s as calm and in control as possible before walking to the cabin.

Kratos meets him at the door, almost walking into him before he even realises Atreus is there. They stop, both a little stunned, as they face each other, then Kratos wraps his arms around his son, and Atreus leans into his hold, and they stay there, holding each other, until they have conveyed effectively to the other how _sorely you were missed_ , _how greatly you are loved_ , _how wonderful it is to see you again, safe and sound._

Kratos is the first to step back, Atreus only a second behind. Together they walk into the house, and Atreus begins to unpack his bag on the table. They say nothing, but they don’t need to.

The silence is finally broken by Mimir, who gives a hearty, “Well, hello again, little brother.”

“Hi Mimir,” Atreus replies as cheerily as he can. He swallows the lump in his throat and walks over to his bed, laying down his bow, quiver and now-empty pack. When he turns back, his father is looking down at his clothes. Atreus bites his lip and vies to regain his attention.

“You were on the way out when I arrived?”

“Yes. I was going to train, just to keep my skills sharp.”

“I’ll come with you.” Atreus bounds over to his father.

“Are you sure?” Kratos cocks an eyebrow. “You just returned.”

“I know. But I haven’t seen you in…” he trails off, trying to think of just how long he’s been gone. When he draws a blank, Atreus shrugs and reaches out to lift Mimir. “And I’ll carry Mimir. You two have been stuck together for a while, and we have some catching up to do.”

Kratos gives him a look that translates to a mix of concern and mild confusion, before nodding slowly and beckoning for Atreus to follow him. Once they’re outside he casts a glance at his son.

“Your bow?”

“I’m going to practice my magic.”

Kratos smiles.

 

“It’s going to happen soon, isn’t it?” Mimir asks softly. Atreus looks down at the head, where he sits beside him on the bed, and nods slowly.

“I had hoped to have more time with him. To come back long before…tonight.” He still hasn’t told Mimir that he’s seen his father die. “But the dreams I had last night…” He shakes his head and looks away.

“Everything will be alright, lad,” Mimir says gently, and Loki gives a sour chuckle.

“Right,” he drawls, and Mimir’s eyes narrow.

“So, you’re still not in control of yourself.”

“You thought a little time in the woods would be enough for him? No. Oh, but you should hear what we did.”

Mimir goes to speak, but Kratos steps in through the door, and Atreus looks up at him. He’s a touch paler, Mimir notices, but he says nothing.

“You should rest,” Kratos says simply, hanging Leviathan in its place.

Atreus nods and moves to grab a clean pair of clothes. He pulls off his dirty shirt and drops it at his side.

“Boy.”

Atreus looks up, then follows his father’s gaze to his shoulder. The scar from the axe is visible, even in the fading light.

“That wound is new.” Kratos steps closer and looks at his son, who turns his gaze away and pulls on his clean shirt. “What happened?”

“I met some people,” he says softly, “in the woods. They were fighting. I tried to stop them.”

“It was not your fight,” Kratos says gently.

“But it was. They’re fighting because it’s Fimbulwinter – because they’re cold and hungry and scared – and I’m the one that caused it. It’s my fault.”

Behind him, Mimir connects the dots.

“What happened to the men?”

Atreus stiffens and screws his eyes shut. “I snapped. Loki came out. Started choking one. Threw him into a tree. I don’t know if he’s okay.”

For a moment, Kratos is silent. Then he lays a hand gently on his son’s shoulder – the one without the scar from the axe. “Rest,” he insists gently. “It is in the past. There is nothing you can do now.”

Atreus nods and crosses to his bed. He drops down into it and pulls the furs over himself. Across the room, he sees his father lift Mimir and begin speaking to him softly. Atreus curls up, closing his eyes and trying to hope against all hope that he will not awake, in the middle of the night, to the rumble of thunder and the flashes of lightning. But he knows, deep down, that he will, and he falls asleep ready for the nightmares to come.

 

Atreus does not dream of Thor.

He dreams, again, of his mother.

Faye steps out of the Realm Travel Room, wearing only a thin vest and short-cut pants, tied together with a sash. They’re in Muspelheim, Atreus notices. He follows his mother as she wanders along the path and past the arenas where Surtr’s sword would stand. Atreus realises with awe that she has bested all of the sword’s trials.

Faye continues along to a sharp cliff face, which is already carved with the long, thin marks she left for Atreus and his father. She climbs up, and Atreus follows. Not much further along is another cliff face, this one bare. Faye hooks her fingers around a rough patch of rock and pulls herself up, kicking her feet against the rock face to push herself up.

Atreus takes a seat on the ground and watches as she withdraws from her belt the chisel, then begins carefully carving away the rock in front of her. She makes another of the long marks, then lowers herself down to grab hold of it, ensuring it’s deep enough to grab and strong enough to support her weight.

Once she’s sure the carving will hold, Faye presses her hand to it and murmurs something beneath her breath. Atreus watches with wide eyes as the rock begins to glow gold beneath her touch. The glow dies down, and Atreus notes that the gold has stayed in place around the carving, leaving it just as it was when he first found it.

Faye reaches up and presses her palm against a point above her. She then lifts the chisel to the same point and begins chipping away, creating another mark.

They’re in Jötunheimr now, and Faye is walking along in front of the walls where Atreus found the carvings. Only some of them have been marked out, and Faye is pointing towards the bare walls around them. She describes to another Jötunn what Atreus thinks must be the details of a premonition. He nods and motions for a few others to begins carving out the walls in accordance with the premonition.

Faye walks away from the walls and down the stairs, then out onto the bridge between realms. She steps out atop the Mountain, and Atreus follows her to its base, where Sindri has one of his shops set up.

Sindri greets his mother with a smile, which she eagerly returns, and she walks to his side. He kneels down beneath the bench and stands up a moment later, holding something out to Faye. From where he’s standing, Atreus cannot make out what they are, but he sees the glint of gold.

Atreus blinks, and they’re in the Realm Travel Room. Faye is kneeling over a long cloak, murmuring a spell into the fabric. She pulls it on, then draws the hood as the growth of the vines on the ground stops and the Room stops moving.

Something about her is different. Atreus doesn’t know how – almost as though he is seeing her without seeing her.

Faye moves to the doors and carefully pushes one open. Atreus slips out beside her and freezes when he realises they’re in Asgard. Faye begins walking up the path to Odin’s palace, and Atreus forces himself to follow her. None of the gods walking by seem to notice her, and Atreus realises with a start that the spell she cast turned her invisible.

Faye walks the halls, tracing her fingers along the walls. Atreus hurries past her and turns around to see that her eyes have taken on the same white glow his do when he has a premonition. She’s foreseeing her way around the palace, he realises.

They stop before Fulla’s room and the glow dies away. Faye sighs softly and pushes it open. Atreus steps in after her and hovers in the corner of the room. Fulla turns as the door opens, expression growing from curiosity to mild concern as she sees no one. Atreus watches his mother open her mouth, hears her speak – though he cannot make out the words. Whatever she says actually seems to reassure Fulla, rather than worry her. Atreus doesn’t understand how hearing a disembodied voice can be reassuring, but he doesn’t question it.

Faye raises her hands and lowers her hood. Fulla blinks in surprise, then her expression turns to one of recognition.

“I know you,” she says softly, and Atreus’ heart aches at the sound of her voice. “They tell tales of you – of Laufey.”

“I’m surprised you recognise me. I try my hardest not to be seen.” Oh, and if hearing Fulla made his heart ache, hearing his mother brings Atreus to the verge of tears.

“So I see.” Fulla smiles faintly. “What brings you here?”

“My son.” Faye steps forwards, withdrawing something from beneath her cloak. “He’s not yet born, but I have seen him – and you are important to him.”

Fulla looks down at Faye’s closed hand, trying to discern just what she’s holding. “What does that have to do with me?”

“There will come a day when you meet him. His name will be Loki, and it’s important that you give him these.” Faye takes Fulla’s hand, and presses into it whatever it was she was holding. When she withdraws her hand, Atreus can see the golden cloak pin and the silver ring that Fulla gave him.

“What are these?” she asks, looking down at them.

“They are Loki’s,” Faye murmurs. “Keep them safe. And tell him…” She thinks for a moment, trying to find the words. “Tell him not to read the runes on the back of the ring until he is truly lost. He will know when the time comes.”

Fulla looks down at the items in her hand, then carries them over to a decorative box on a shelf by her bed. She places them carefully into the box before returning to Faye.

“Why do you trust me?” Fulla finally blurts. Faye just gives a knowing smile.

“Because I’ve already seen your future. And I think you may just come to like it.”

Faye is backlit by fire.

They’re standing, looking at each other – almost as though she can see him this time – surrounded by a ring of something out of focus. Fires burn around them – untamed and immense – and the ground beneath their feet is littered with rubble.

Faye opens her arms.

 

Atreus awakes to the crack of thunder. For a moment, he isn’t quite sure if it’s real. Then he hears his father call his name, feels the ground shake as thunder booms overhead, sees the flash of blinding white as lightning strikes the ground far too close for comfort, and he springs from his bed, hand finding his bow.

Kratos throws to door open and beckons for Atreus to stay behind him. “Who are you?” he roars to the man. Atreus doesn’t need to see Mjolnir, revealed when the wind blows back the man’s cape. He’d recognise that face anywhere.

“Well hello,” Thor rumbles, voice like thunder. “Fancy seeing you here, little traitor.”

Atreus tightens his jaw and steps forwards.

“Boy –” Kratos begins, but he holds up a hand.

“Leave,” Atreus says softly. “Go. We don’t need to have this fight.”

“I rather disagree.” Thor reaches down and draws Mjolnir. “You’ve been rather a pain in the Allfather’s side, and he’d like me to…dispose of you.”

“You can still leave.” Atreus draws his knife, ignoring Thor’s sharp bark of laughter. “You can end this before it even begins.”

Thor aims Mjolnir at Atreus, and before Kratos can even think to pull his son out of the way, the boy has twisted his magic into both a sword and a shield. He throws his arm up and the lightning deflects off the rippling magic. Thor, stunned, freezes in place for a moment – just long enough for Atreus to run at him and slash out with the sword. Thor comes to just in time to step out of the way.

Atreus pulls up and raises his shield again, deflecting another blow of lightning. He surges forwards as soon as it dies away, bringing his sword down at Thor. The sword clashes against Mjolnir, and Thor grunts as he tries to push it away.

“I killed your son,” Atreus grunts, trying to capture Thor’s attention. “What makes you think I won’t kill you, too?”

“Because Modi was weak,” Thor replies, glaring. He groans as he pushes harder against Atreus, but the boy matches his strength. “And now that you’ve turned your back on us, you are, too!”

Thor pulls Mjolnir back and leaps out of the way, so that when Atreus’ swing follows through the sword drives down into the dirt. The force buries the blade deep in the frozen ground and Atreus struggles to pull it out. Thor grins and aims another burst of lightning.

Atreus leaps out of the way, releasing his hold on the magic as he does. The golden glow around his knife fades away and it drops to the ground. As soon as the lightning dies away again, Atreus lunges forwards, scooping up the knife and dropping so he slides along on his back between Thor’s legs. Atreus slashes out with the knife, cutting the insides of Thor’s legs, and the god howls.

Atreus again summons the magic into the shape of a sword, but Thor is no longer looking at him. He’s looking at Kratos. Atreus realises too late what the god has done – separated him from his father. Thor throws a look over his shoulder – a wicked grin that tells Atreus he knows he’s won – and he throws a burst of lightning at Kratos.

This is not Modi’s borrowed lightning. This is not something Father can simply shrug off. This is Thor’s lighting – pure and powerful – and directed straight at his heart. Atreus doesn’t know who screams louder – himself, or his father. He sprints past Thor, dropping at Kratos’ side seconds after the man falls to the ground.

“Father,” he begs, looking down at the motionless figure. He pleads again, “Father!” and when that doesn’t work, he gives a final, desperate, “ _Dad!_ ”

Loki reaches out, clawing feverishly at the insides of Atreus’ skin, trying to pull himself into place. Atreus relents, slipping back inside himself as Loki surfaces and screams. It’s a pained, primal roar that only grows louder as he pulls Kratos’ head onto his lap.

 _Help him_ , Atreus begs of the Jötnar. _Save him!_

 _There is no help,_ they reply, and Loki’s roar grow louder. _There is no save. There is only return._

The word bubbles up to him – a thousand voices all echoing it, growing louder and louder until Atreus reaches out, presses himself against Loki and falters his cries, replacing them instead with the word.

“ _Önd_ ,” he whispers, and his chest begins to burn. Vaguely he is aware of Thor coming closer – content enough in his victory that he wishes to strike him down with Mjolnir, rather than his lightning.

“ _Önd_ ,” they say again – Atreus and Loki together – louder this time. The burning in their chest sears itself into their flesh, and from it a great white light begins to glow. “ _Önd_!” And the body under their hands begins to warm as they draw back life, draw back breath, draw back soul.

In another time they would scream as the pain tears through them, but in this time it’s leeching out through the fog coming from their chest, leaving them almost as quickly as it comes to them. The pain forms a great, white, writhing shape in front of them, and Thor staggers away, eyes wide.

Jörmungandr begins to solidify into existence, and almost instantly he begins to lunge towards Thor. The god tries to fight back, but he was taken by surprise, and he can barely block Jörmungandr’s attacks, let alone lash out on his own.

The strange unity that overcame them fades away as the battle writhes before them, and it is Atreus who blinks himself back to the present. He finds tears blurring his vision and wipes them away hurriedly, before his gaze settles on his father – whose chest has again begun to rise as fall.

Atreus cries out joyfully, though his momentary reverie is cut short when Jörmungandr’s tail crashes down mere metres from him and his father. Atreus pushes himself up and hooks his arms under his father’s, dragging him backwards through the snow until they can safely collapse behind the tree line. He wraps his arms around Kratos, supporting his upper body and holding him close, just to feel the warmth of his life.

Jörmungandr and Thor writhe together before them, bringing trees crashing down and threatening to destroy their home should they get too close. Jörmungandr is nowhere near full size, but it’s still impressive to see him battle with Thor – to see him dodge the lightning and snap his fangs at the god held captive between his coils.

Their battle must surely last mere minutes, but it feels like an eternity before Atreus hears the crack. For a moment he thinks it’s more of Thor’s thunder, but no – it’s deeper, more resonant, more powerful. There’s a light, blinding and consuming, and another, soul-shaking crack. Then the ground before them is empty. Thor and Jörmungandr are gone.

Atreus drops back on his haunches as he tries to understand exactly what happened. Vaguely he registers his father shifting slightly in his grasp, but his attention is focussed on the ground before them. It was Yggdrasil, he realises – the battle between Jörmungandr and Thor so colossal that it broke a branch of the World Tree and sent Jörmungandr back through time.

Mercifully, the crack seems to have sent Thor away, too, because no sooner has Atreus come to the conclusion that they’re safe than the exhaustion catches up with him and he slumps against his father’s form. Atreus scans the ground in front of them again briefly, just to be sure, before allowing himself to sink into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rest in pieces @ me I'm exhausted school has slaughtered me  
> have this mess it's twice the length of the normal chapters because I love you all and I wanted to make up for the stupidly long wait between chapters  
> school and assignments are?? really awful they really weren't kidding when they said grade twelve was tough ugh  
> thoughts on this chapter? I've been itching to write this part since I started the sequel because!! it's super painful for you all to think Kratos is going to die and super lucky for me that I made up the whole damned spells thing and the carving in Jotunheimr is super vague and I love twisting legends like this so here enjoy  
> leave your thoughts on this and future chapters in the comments (also if you want to slander me feel free lol)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus gets to enjoy some time with his family, because he deserves that happiness.

It takes Kratos a painfully long time to comprehend what happened. He remembers vaguely the feeling of hands laid against him – a reminder of another time when he was battered and broken, of another time when hands poured magic under his skin.

He cannot quite pinpoint just how he feels, but it is familiar – he has been in this position before, though he doesn’t remember how. It’s almost like the time he was caught in the Light of Alfheim, only it felt different. Colder, darker. More torturous.

Kratos is awake enough to see and feel the battle between Jörmungandr and Thor. He doesn’t understand what’s happening while he’s watching, but in the silent moment after the crack and the blinding light he manages to give himself a rough idea of what he just witnessed.

Then he feels the weight slump against him, feels the faint outwards breath against his skin, and his blood runs cold. Kratos reaches up over his shoulder and pulls the weight leaning on him into his lap. He brushes the soft, red hair out of the way and looks down at his son’s expressionless face. Too calm – too close to the way he looked when the sickness last took him.

“Atreus,” Kratos murmurs, adjusting his son in his lap. He cups his cheek, finding little comfort in the faint warmth. “ _Atreus_.”

Kratos hears a soft groan from behind him and looks over his shoulder. His gaze lands on Mimir, face down in the snow, where the lightning blast and subsequent shaking of the earth left him. Kratos reaches out and pulls the head closer, holding him up so he can see.

“What happened to him?” he demands, worry lacing his voice.

“He cast a damned spell,” Mimir replies, a little awestruck.

“Another?”

“You remember the ones Freya and I told you of?”

“Which one did he cast?” Kratos looks down at the boy, trying to find the mark left by the spell.

“Check his chest,” Mimir says, voice low.

Kratos hesitates for a moment before pulling down the collar of Atreus’ tunic enough to see the skin above his heart. There, a scar against is skin, is the _Valknut_.

“The spell to bring life,” Kratos recalls. Fear chills his blood. Mimir’s words come back to him. _Sometimes the act of bringing someone back to life ends with an exchange of lives_. Kratos presses his fingers to his son’s neck, leans down to press an ear over his heart.

Mimir must understand the source of his fear because he says, as calmly as possible, “It’s alright, brother – he’s alright. He lived long enough to finish casting the spell, and he lived long enough to pull you away. He’s survived it. He’s just exhausted.”

Kratos slowly pulls away, but only moves his fingers once he’s assured of a pulse beneath them. He looks down at Atreus for a moment before another thought clicks into place.

“If he brought someone back to life,” he begins, “then who –”

Kratos freezes, looking down at his hands. His eyes then go to his son. He remembers the broken shifting after a dream sent Atreus staggering out of the house into the snow; remembers the heartfelt goodbye as he leaves the house, under the reasoning of _trying to avoid something he knows he cannot_ ; of the desperate desire to spend as much of the day prior with his father as possible.

“He knew,” Kratos murmurs, opening and closing his fingers. “He knew I would die.”

Because that’s what the feeling was – the feeling that was so familiar to him, though he could not remember why. It’s the feeling of death. How could he have forgotten? Of course, he’d left that life behind.

“It would seem so. Though from the way he reacted, I doubt he knew he’d bring you back.”

“What do I do?”

“Take him home. He’s exhausted. Stay close – I doubt he’ll want to wake up alone.”

Kratos nods slowly and shifts his hold on Atreus, drawing the boy into his arms and standing carefully. He ties Mimir to the back of his belt and crosses the clearing to his home. There’s a massive hole in the ceiling, blown out by Thor’s lightning. He’ll have to fix it quickly. Kratos crosses the room and lays Atreus down on his bed, carefully removing his bow and quiver. He sets them down on the ground beside the bed, then removes the knife from Atreus’ belt and places it beside them.

“What happened?” he finally asks, stepping back from the bedside.

“How much do you remember?”

“Watching Atreus fight Thor alone. The lightning. Then…the Serpent. And a great cracking noise.”

“It would seem that the backlash of casting the spell allowed Atreus to – well – birth the World Serpent.”

“He created it?” Kratos raises an eyebrow and looks down at his son.

“Well, it would explain why he was familiar to Jörmungandr, what with being his father and all.”

Kratos folds his arms, casting his mind back to the conversation he had with Heimdallr after the god bested him. _There will come a day you cannot avoid – a day where you die, and the world around you is changed because of it_. He had foreseen Kratos’ death. He had known what it would bring – a sorrow so great Atreus would create the World Serpent.

Kratos sighs and steps back, looking up at the hole in the roof. He considers fixing it, wonders just how long that will take. Mimir seems to understand what he’s thinking and pipes up.

“He’s exhausted, brother – you’ll have time. Best tend to it now, rather than leave it and risk being caught in bad weather.”

“True.” Kratos casts another look at Atreus. He may have grown during his time with the Æsir, but he still looks so small, half-curled on the bed. “You’re sure he will be alright?”

“I promise.”

 

Atreus blinks his eyes open to golden-orange light. His first thought is sunrise. Then he notices, through the open door, just which direction the shadows fall in, and realises it’s sunset.

He’s slept the whole day away? Surely not – he’s still exhausted, and aching –

Atreus sits up suddenly as the memories hit him – which turns out to be a bad idea, because the sudden movement causes spots to flash across his vision and a sharp pain to burst behind his eyes. He groans lowly and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, sinking back slowly into the bed.

He fought Thor. He fought Thor, and his father – his father…

Atreus saved him. He pulls his hands slowly away from his eyes. Atreus squints, trying to draw on the fuzzy memory. He remembers saving his father – remembers the Jötnar giving him the word. He summoned the World Serpent as a result.

At least, he thinks he saved him. He remembers faint warmth beneath his hands, but was that really life? He remembers movement under his palms, but was that really breathing? He remembers dragging his father away and collapsing against him as the battle drew to a close, but was he really –

The hole in the roof is gone.

Atreus squints up at it, confused. There _was_ a hole in the roof, he knows. Thor blasted it out. Only, it’s gone now. Did it really happen? Was it only a dream – another premonition so realistic that Atreus confused it with reality? He didn’t fall asleep in his bed, but out in the snow. Maybe it was only a dream.

But no. The roof has been _mended_ , and he still feels the pain of the battle. Which can only mean –

“Atreus?” Kratos appears in the doorway, summoned by the pained groans of his son. He looks worried, almost scared.

“Father!” Atreus pushes himself upright, ignoring the spots in his vision, and crosses the room, slamming into his father. He throws his arms around the taller man, burying his face in Kratos’ shoulder. Fresh tears burn at the back of his eyes hut he forces them down.

“Are you alright?” Kratos asks when Atreus draws back.

“Me?” He gapes slightly. “I’m not the one who – I mean, you – you _died_.”

“You used a lot of energy bringing your da back from the dead,” Mimir says gently. “Worried us both. He’s just checking you’re okay.”

Atreus looks between Mimir and his father before replying softly, “I’m okay. A bit sore.”

“Do you want to rest?”

“I’ve been asleep all day.”

“But do you want to rest?”

Atreus goes to reply, then closes his mouth. He steps out past his father, who turns quickly to keep his eyes on his son, and walks out to one of the stumps in the front yard. Atreus slowly sits down, folding his hands in his lap, and looks up at the sky. The river glows orange, and the sky is painted with a golden light that bleeds into a hazy purple around the rising moon. The few clouds that dot the sky are thin and wispy, and glow with a silver lining.

It’s the first time in three years that Atreus has seen a proper sunset.

Not a single flake of snow falls. No harsh wind blows between the trees. The treetops shift gently in a faint breeze, causing the light of the setting sun to wash backwards and forwards over the ground. Atreus is bathed in a soft orange glow – and it’s the warmest he’s felt in years.

Kratos says nothing. He stands in the doorway, watching his son. He sees the faint smile on Atreus’ face. He sees the lightness of his figure. He sees the way his body relaxes as he exhales slowly, breath a fog in front of him. He sees his son at peace.

Atreus stays on the stump until the orange and gold has faded to a grey twilight. He sits a moment longer, then stands and walks back to the house. The aching of the battle is beginning to fade, but still he moves slowly to accommodate. Atreus steps inside the house and smiles at the smell of freshly baking bread. After his mother died, he had been the one to do such things as cook, since his father was often away hunting. He’s a little surprised his father even knows how to make bread. But he doesn’t say anything, only sits back on his bed and smiles across the room at his father.

They rest in a comfortable silence for a moment before Kratos says, “I did not know you could wield a sword.”

For a second, Atreus is confused – then he remembers the fight with Thor. The way he bent his magic to form a sword around his knife. The confidence with which he wielded it.

“I learned in Asgard,” he says softly, casting his gaze down and picking at a thread on his pants. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“I am always interested in what you do, and the things you learn. Where you learned it does not matter to me.”

Atreus looks up at his father. The man’s attention is on the bread, but he sees his father’s eyes flick towards him momentarily. He smiles faintly and stands, walking over to sit beside his father.

“It was actually the Jötnar who told me how to do it.” He holds up his knife and turns it around to study both sides. “Well, they didn’t really tell me, but they gave me the word. And the one for the shield, too. I’m not as good with the sword as with my bow, but I thought it would do better against Thor.”

“I could teach you a few things, if you wanted. When you feel better.”

“You know how to fight with a sword?”

“I learned back in Sparta. All young boys were taught how to use many different weapons. I have not used a sword in many years, but there are a few things I remember.”

Atreus grins and nods. “Yes. Please.”

 

Atreus sleeps peacefully that night. He’s too tired to dream, let alone have premonitions. When he wakes in the morning he feels stiff, but well rested. The sun is only just rising as he steps out of the house into the snow. More fell overnight, but has since stopped falling. Atreus walks across the open yard and takes a seat at the edge of the river.

Atreus draws himself up onto a rock and shifts slightly to get more comfortable. His back cracks and he gives a soft groan, straightening. He wasn’t even hit, he thinks in annoyance as he stretches his aching arms. Who knew throwing himself around like he did would hurt so much?

A thought comes to him, and Atreus chastises himself for not having had it sooner. He lifts his right hand and holds it over his left elbow, where the joint is most painful. He steels himself and murmurs a soft, “ _Heill_.”

The marks on Atreus’ hands begin to glow faintly as the magic flows. He wraps the fingers of his right hand loosely around his elbow and begins to move his hand to trace the pain, when he stops. A glow is emanating from his chest, too faint to pass through his tunic but just visible through the open collar. Atreus lifts his hand from his arm and tugs at his collar, looking down to find another glowing mark on his chest.

Atreus, ignorant of the pain, pulls his tunic up over his head and leans forwards so he can see his reflection in the water. There, right above his heart, is another mark like the ones on his hands – only this one isn’t shaped like lightning, but like the _Valknut_.

There had been a burning in his chest when he and Loki had resurrected his father – he hadn’t realised the word the Jötnar gave him had been another damned spell. He hadn’t had a chance to realise.

Atreus sits back on his haunches and pulls his tunic back on. So that was how he was able to summon Jörmungandr – the backlash of the spell had not killed him, but had become a new life. Atreus gives a low groan and buries his face in his hands. What he once thought was simple magic has become a million times more confusing.

After a moment of wallowing in self-pity, Atreus straightens and resumes healing himself. When he’s magicked away as much of the pain as he can, he pushes himself to his feet and turns back to the house.

Kratos has woken by the time Atreus returns. He bids his father a good morning and moves to his bed. He lifts his bow and quiver, slinging them both across his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Kratos asks, eyebrows furrowed. “You haven’t even eaten.”

“I’m going to mother’s garden,” Atreus replies, lifting his knife. He tucks it into his belt and turns back to his father, who stands waiting at the table.

“Eat,” the man insists. “Then you may go.”

When Atreus is finally able to drag himself away from the house he stops at the edge of the forest, frozen on the house side of the tree line. Kratos watches from the doorway, forehead creased with worry.

It is a part of him, and he must accept it.

It’s the first time in a long time that Atreus has willingly changed his shape. Four paws thunder across the forest floor, making leaps and bounds to reach the garden. In this moment, Atreus is not a wolf, but a person in a wolf’s body, and never before has he been happier about it.

Atreus is human again when he steps out onto the frozen earth of the garden. Weeds run rampant, even after just the few weeks since he last visited. It will be tedious to remove them all, Atreus thinks. He doesn’t even know if there’s anything left of the garden to save. But he’ll try.

 

The sun sets before Atreus can pull himself away from the garden. Weeds still clog the parts he did not have time to tend to, but in the areas Atreus reached he found the sprouts of plants that had not yet given up on life.

The walk back is no challenge, even in the dark – Atreus has the path memorised from the many trips he and his mother would make when he was young. He has walked the trail at night before, too – though always with his mother.

Atreus absentmindedly twists the ring on his finger, feeling the engraved runes against his skin. He smiles faintly – a bittersweet smile – and lets his hand fall away. He remembers the dream he had of his mother. Of watching her sneak through the halls of Asgard and give the ring to Fulla. She had known he would end up there. She had known Loki would reveal himself. And still, she had forgiven him.

 _Forgiven us_.

Atreus puts the thought behind himself and continues down the path towards home. He doesn’t want to worry his father, though he knows Kratos is already worried about him. He’s still not entirely convinced that his father will even be there when he comes home. He’s still not entirely convinced that his father is alive. But he has the mark over his heart to prove it.

Light greets Atreus on his return. Through the open door he can see a fire blazing in the hearth.

“How is the garden?” Kratos asks as Atreus closes the door behind him.

“Salvageable.” Atreus notices the way his father relaxes when he enters, but he doesn’t mention it.

Kratos doesn’t reply, so Atreus crosses the room to his bed and lays down his weapons. He strikes up a conversation with Mimir about the plants in the garden – Mimir is yet to visit, and Atreus insists on taking him the next time he goes. He tells the head all about the plants his mother once grew – from vegetables and tubers to herbs and flowers – and how they could end up in anything from a dinner to a remedy.

In return, Mimir enthrals Atreus with tales of the many plants he’d encountered in his travels. Atreus is fascinated by his tales of the flora he’s seen – everything from golden flowers to all-curing herbs to a carnivorous trap plant that almost cost him a leg.

Kratos pretends to take no notice of their conversations, but they can both tell he is listening in on the fantastic stories.

They eat together in front of Mimir, who continues to entertain them with tales of his travels. He tells them about the people he met, the countries he visited, the foods he tasted. Mimir weaves stories of countries Atreus has never even heard of, and ones he knows well. And when the embers of the fire burn low, he tells them both in a soft voice of the men and women whom he loved.

“Atreus,” Kratos says softly, and the boy blinks his eyes open. He had been listening – he _had_ – but he was still tired from the fight and from the work he’d done that day.

“I’m awake,” he murmurs, looking up at Mimir, who gives a fond smile.

“Get some rest, lad,” the head says, and Atreus thinks he’s very right.

“I’ll be leaving in the morning,” Kratos informs him as he prepares to sleep. “I hadn’t wanted to leave you while you’re still recovering, but we are running low on food. I’ll need to travel to find game – we’ve hunted almost everything nearby over the winter. There’s enough to keep you until I come back.”

Atreus nods and smiles a little tiredly. “I’ll be alright, father. And I’ll have Mimir for company – unless you wanted to take him.”

Kratos does not reply to the joke, but Atreus hears the little grunt that is the closest thing to a laugh he’ll get, and his smile grows to a small grin.

Atreus wishes both Mimir and his father goodnight and sinks into his bed, curling into a ball and draping his furs lightly over himself. He hears his father and Mimir speaking softly behind him – seemingly another of Mimir’s stories, judging from the tone of his voice. He can pick out the occasional word – something about a hot country and a fat snake – but they’re soon lost to the gentle fuzz of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy look I'm not dead would you believe it  
> I meant to update this book over the holidays but that Did Not Happen oops  
> I can't promise another update soon because I came back into the last term with, like, three assignments but I'll try  
> We make wine in chemistry this term but we don't even get to drink it what a travesty  
> What did you guys think of this chapter? I know it's a little shorter than most but I wanted to get something out for you, and the only other option was a super duper long chapter, so I broke what I was planning up into two parts.   
> Atreus needed this happiness okay he needed some soft moments with his family and some happiness.  
> Comment your thoughts on this chapter, and what's to come  
> Or even if you're just still here. If you're still reading just. Let me know. Yeah. Thanks love you all


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus and Loki have a falling out, and Atreus starts coming to his senses.

Kratos is already gone when Atreus awakes. He hadn’t really expected his father to still be there, but it was a little strange for the house to be empty when Kratos had been keeping such a close eye on his son over the past few days.

Atreus kicks back his furs and stands, stretching. Due to his magic and the amount of rest he’s received, his ache is all but gone. Atreus crosses the room to Mimir, who greets him with a warm smile.

“Did you sleep well, lad?”

“I had a weird dream,” Atreus admits, pulling up a chair.

“Another premonition?”

“No, no. Just a really weird dream. I think your stories caused it.”

“Oh?” Mimir cocked an eyebrow. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

“I can’t remember much of it. But I do remember that Jörmungandr was in it. Except he was like that snake you were telling Father about when I fell asleep, so he was really short and fat. And there was one of those things you told me about – the ones that grew back two heads when you cut one off.”

“A hydra?”

“Yes! One of those. Except it just looked like a dear with lots of heads on really long necks. And they were all doe heads, except for the biggest one which was a buck. But then Jörmungandr bit off that head and two more bucks grew back, and they fought to be the leader, and one buck knocked the other’s head off, but then two more buck heads grew, and they just kept knocking each other’s heads off.”

Mimir dissolves into laughter at the thought, and a moment later Atreus does too.

“That sounds bizarre, to say the least,” the head said when he could finally quiet his laughter.

“I feel like the things I can’t remember were even weirder, but I can’t be sure since I don’t remember them.” Atreus’ face screws up with concentration as he tries to remember the dreams, but the harder he tries the further away the memories slipped. Finally he just gives a soft huff and slumps back against his chair.

“Ah, well,” Mimir says, still smiling. “There will be other dreams.”

“Yeah.” Atreus picks at a loose thread on his pants – it’s the set he almost destroyed falling down the rocky hill. After a moment, and without looking up, he says simply, “Do you want to go see Freya?”

Mimir raises an eyebrow. “Freya?”

“Yes. I know the two of you aren’t on good terms, but I didn’t want to leave you here alone.”

“It is my fault she’s stuck in Midgard. I don’t know if I’ll receive a warm welcome.”

“I killed her son, so I think you’ll be fine,” Atreus says bluntly, standing and sweeping up his bow. The pep returns to his voice as he pulls it over his shoulder and continues, “Besides some company would be nice.”

“Oh,” Mimir teases, “am I not good company?”

“You know what I mean.” Atreus offers a smile and lifts Mimir. He ties the rope to his belt, making sure the head is hanging comfortably – or, at least, as comfortably as possible – before heading out the door.

“You went back to her house, didn’t you?” Mimir asks as Atreus steps into the boat. The river never once froze during Fimbulwinter – likely remnants of his mother’s magic – but the water still flows sluggishly, meaning the trip against the current won’t be too hard for Atreus to take alone.

“Yes,” Atreus replies, detaching Mimir from his belt and sitting the head across the boat from himself. He lifts the oars into his hands and pushes away from the dock. “She helped me repair my clothes, and let me stay the night. She’s…not over what I did, but she’s trying to move on.”

“Amazing. She’s held a grudge against me for more years than I dare to count.”

Atreus gives a soft snort. He settles into a rhythm with the oars, and after a minute or so of rowing Mimir begins to remark about how the river around them reminds him of a legend he once heard from the elves.

“It’s said,” he begins, “that there was once a river in Alfheim made of pure gold. For a long time it went unnoticed by most, hidden away in a part of the realm that the war had not yet reached. Then one day, it was discovered by the dark elves, who sought to keep the gold for themselves. They began using it to make more and better weapons and armour for themselves. The war seemed to turn in their favour.

“Then the light elves discovered the valley in which the river flowed, and found the dark elf stronghold built along the river bank. The light elves stormed the stronghold, and the dark elves were taken by surprise. For all their new weapons and armour, they were not prepared against the surprise attack, and they were slaughtered.

“The light elves then planned to use the stronghold for their own gain, creating weapons for themselves from the gold. But the blood of the dark elves, which had fallen into the river during the massacre, began to turn the gold to lead.”

“Charming.” Atreus pulls a face.

“It’s a lesson on greed. The light elves wanted what the dark elves had, and their greed caused them to lose the golden river. Though, in a way, it was also for the best – it meant they could not create weapons of their own.”

“Wouldn’t they just use the dark elves’ weapons?”

“A light elf would rather die than wield the weapon of a dark elf. They are considered dirty weapons – savage. No, they destroyed all the weapons and armour instead.”

“That’s funny – their weapons are too savage to use, but it’s not too savage to slaughter them all.” When Atreus looks up, Mimir is smiling at him.

“You’re very clever, lad.”

For a moment, Atreus is too stunned to reply. Then he gives a small smile and a soft, “Thanks.”

Atreus pulls the boat up a moment later, tying it into place beside Freya’s. He returns Mimir to his belt and crosses the garden, avoiding walking near Baldur’s headstone. Mimir says nothing as they approach the house.

Freya is already waiting, just outside the door, when they approach. Her expression is sombre as she takes the pair in.

“Atreus,” she says softly. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” he replies, already fumbling his words. “And I have a lot to tell you.”

Freya regards him curiously, but doesn’t question him. She opens the door and Atreus steps quickly inside. He takes a seat at the table and unties Mimir, placing him carefully on the tabletop.

“What do you have to tell me?” Freya asks, sitting opposite Atreus. She throws a quick, disgruntled glance at Mimir but says nothing.

Atreus struggles a moment to find his words before finally offering, “I saved him.”

“What?”

“Father – I saved him.”

Freya stares, disbelieving, for a moment before leaning forwards slightly. “How?”

“Well…” Atreus scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “I…didn’t really _save_ him so much as bring him back.”

A beat of silence, then a very quiet, “Show me.”

Atreus tugs down the collar of his shirt enough for Freya to see the mark above his heart. She stares, eyes wide. Atreus releases his collar and looks away again. They both know what this means, and he’s afraid of what Freya will ask of him.

“You brought him back to life?”

“And created Jörmungandr while he was at it,” Mimir pipes up, much to Atreus’ relief.

“What?”

“The backlash of the spell essentially birthed the World Serpent. He’s Jörmungandr’s da.”

Freya looks at Mimir, then back to Atreus. “You’re incredibly powerful, Atreus.”

“Loki was there too,” he blurts, trying to turn the attention away from himself. “He probably did most of it.”

“You and Loki are the same person, Atreus,” Freya says gently, reaching out to rest a palm on the back of his hand. “Which means if he could cast the spell, so can you. And if you cast it once –”

“No,” Mimir cuts in, and Freya recoils like she’d been bitten. “He’s not to bring Baldur back. What’s done is done.”

“It’s not your choice to make.”

“Oh, just look at the lad – you can tell he doesn’t want to do it. He won’t even look at you.”

“Because his last encounter with my son was – well, unpleasant. But he knows Baldur –”

“Yes,” Atreus cuts in, “I do. And I’m sorry, Freya, but I won’t bring him back.”

The look on Freya’s face almost breaks his heart, but Atreus holds strong. He softens his own gaze slightly. “I’m sorry, Freya. I know how much he meant to you. But Mimir is right. What’s done is done.”

Freya stares him down for a moment, then stands and walks a few feet away. Atreus turns after her but says nothing, just keeps his eyes on her. After a few minutes of tense silence she returns to her seat.

“Where is your father now?” Freya asks, the emotion gone from her voice.

“He went hunting.” Atreus prods at a groove in the wood of the table, dragging his nail through it. “He didn’t want to leave me alone since I’m still recovering, but I’m well enough to handle myself and we needed more food.”

“He is alright?”

“He’s fine. A little bit more worried about me than normal, but other than that, he’s exactly the same as before.”

“And this second Jörmungandr?”

“Started fighting Thor. Turns out that was the battle that sent him back in time. It sent Thor away, too.”

“That’s lucky. Had Thor not been sent away – or had Jörmungandr not appeared…”

“I know,” Atreus says, looking up at her. “I’d be dead.”

_We’d be dead._

“Shut up,” Atreus murmurs to himself. Freya raises an eyebrow.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just…talking to myself.”

“Mm-hm. Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, how can I help you?”

“The lad wanted some company – mine isn’t good enough, apparently.”

“Hey, I never said that!” Atreus’ cheeks flush faintly red and he ducks his head. His blush only grows at Freya’s soft laughter.

“Well, I can’t say you’d be the best company,” she says to Mimir, who tries to sputter back some sort of argument of his own.

“He tells good stories,” Atreus pipes up in defence of Mimir, who stops his mess of an assertion and just makes a sound of agreement.

“Oh, does he?” Freya looks between the two of them, gaze lingering for a moment on Atreus. “We should test that theory. I have some stories of my own, you know. Atreus, would you run outside and fetch a basket of fruit? I meant to pick more this morning.”

“Sure,” Atreus replies, a little hesitant. He stands and crosses to the back door. The second he’s outside, Freya leans towards Mimir.

“You know,” she says, voice low. “He mentioned Loki, and he was not merely speaking to himself. You know what that means.”

Mimir is silent, but his expression holds weight.

“You and I both know there is more than a mere battle with Thor. You know what is coming. If he doesn’t make peace with himself –”

“This isn’t something we can force on him, Freya. You know what he’s been through. You have to understand this isn’t easy for him.”

“Well you have to do something. Atreus has to be at peace with himself or else –”

“Or else what?”

Freya looks up at the open door, where Atreus stands, basket in hand. He looks between her and Mimir, gaze steady. When neither of them reply he steps inside, letting the door slam behind him. He crosses to the bench on the far wall and slowly places the fruit on a plate. There is a heavy silence in the room.

“So,” Atreus says finally, placing the plate down on the table and slipping back into his seat. “Let’s hear these stories of yours.”

It takes a long moment for Freya to final break the silence, and when she does, there’s no conviction to her tale.

 

Atreus wakes up from a nightmare he can’t remember. There’s no danger to it – no sense of a premonition or prophecy – and there’s no lingering dread, save for the cold sweat on the back of his neck. Probably another strange dream inspired by the stories Mimir and Freya wove.

He’s about to make himself comfortable again and go back to sleep when Freya catches his attention. She’s no longer lying in her bed like she was when he fell asleep. Rather, she’s standing by the enchanted window, arms folded across her chest as she watches the vision of Vanaheim.

Atreus rises slowly from the chair he was sleeping in and crosses the room. He stands a few steps behind Freya, silently observing.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks softly after a moment.

“Something like that.” Atreus steps forwards so he’s standing in line with Freya, but he gives her a wide berth. He watches in silence for a moment the beauty of Vanaheim through the window.

“You miss it.” Freya looks over at Atreus, but he isn’t looking back at her. He’s still staring into the window. “Almost as much as you miss him. You’re drowning in it. Drowning in the longing to return. But you can’t – you never can. And that’s why you miss it so much.”

“Atreus –”

“I can feel it. How badly you miss it. It’s radiating off you in waves so strong even a mortal could feel them. I wonder how you haven’t drowned anyone with you.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Freya crosses her arms over her chest and casts her gaze to the ground.

“Do you miss Asgard?” she murmurs.

A small pause, and then, “We miss Fulla.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. Freya looks back up at the window after a moment, and Atreus continues to stand in silence, arms drawn over his chest. Finally, his shoulders sag and he takes a step backwards. Freya turns her head to look at him.

“Go back to sleep,” she says softly. Atreus nods and walks back over to the chair. He curls up against the back and looks through his eyelashes at Freya, where she remains standing by the mirror until long after he has fallen asleep.

 

Atreus takes a bite of one of the crab apples he left Freya’s house with and spits the seed out into the trees. He swings his leg back and forth lazily from where it dangles over the edge of the branch he sits on. Mimir hangs, still asleep, from his belt. It is, overall, a pleasant moment.

Loki stirs lazily deep down and Atreus sighs softly. He takes another bite of the apple and chews slowly. He thinks of the morning prior, and the midnight conversation with Freya. _We miss Fulla_ , he had said. And what had Mimir and Freya said about him?

Atreus swallows and tips his head back against the tree trunk. “Freya,” he says slowly, “thinks I need to…be at peace with you. Mimir seems to agree.” There’s a heavy silence, and Atreus huffs softly. “I’m not keen on it either, but it seems to be important, so if you could make an effort –”

_Me, make an effort?_

A sharp peeling sound like laughter rings deep inside Atreus and he grimaces.

_You need to make the effort, not me._

“As if I’m not making an effort.”

_You’re not. I keep reaching out to you and you bury me._

“Because of what you did. Because of the people you hurt. Sindri. Father. Me.”

_You hurt them._

Atreus reels, sitting up fast enough to jerk Mimir awake.

_You hurt them. You are me, and I am you. You shot Father before even taking my name. We, together, allied with the Æsir. We, together, brought Baldur to Jötunheimr. We, together, killed him._

“That wasn’t me,” Atreus whispers, voice cold. “That wasn’t _me_.”

_We had relinquished my name before we turned the knife on Baldur, but I was still with you. Or would you rather claim I had no influence over you?_

“Freya was wrong,” Atreus says, pushing himself upright. “I don’t need to be at peace with you. I don’t want to be.”

_I am a part of you. You cannot deny it. And things will be much easier for us both if you admit it._

“Leave me alone.” Atreus drops to the ground, a cloud of white rising around him.

 _That’s not an option_.

Atreus can feel Loki reaching out, but not grabbing hold. Atreus pushes him down with a forceful cry of, “I said, _leave me alone_!”

A deep, resonant silence follows, and Atreus draws a shaky breath. He can no longer feel Loki reaching out. His other half seems to be dormant. The only indication that he’s even still there is a faint, cold presence at the core of Atreus’ very being.

Atreus starts walking, fresh snow crunching beneath his boots. It’s almost loud enough to hide Mimir’s words.

“Atreus,” the head says, and much as Atreus tries to ignore him, he cannot bring himself to. “You need to do this, lad. For your own good, if nothing else.”

Atreus says nothing, only folds his arms across his chest to draw more warmth into himself. He’s never felt this cold before.

 

It’s when Atreus thinks he’s finally alone – Mimir at home and the woods around him devoid of life – that the foliage before him parts and a figure steps out. One quick glance up and Atreus lowers the knife he instinctively grabbed, giving a low sigh.

“Not now, Hnoss,” he mutters. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, that’s just not true,” Hnoss replies, stopping in front of the rock he’s sitting on. “I could feel your desire for company. Like I said – just desire it, and I’ll find you.”

Atreus huffs and folds his arms, but he doesn’t turn Hnoss away. She takes a seat on the rock beside him, and begins drawing in the snow with her foot. Mostly just lines and shapes and weird combinations of runes that don’t mean anything.

“You look bored.”

“I am,” she admits.

“Then you can go.”

“No. I need to talk to you. But I need to know you’re ready to listen.”

“Go ahead.”

Hnoss studies Atreus for a moment before leaning back on her hands. “You’re different. Something’s changed between you and Loki.”

“I sent him away.” If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Atreus sounded ashamed.

“You what?”

“I said, I sent him away. He’s gone. I can’t feel him anymore. I just feel cold.”

“Atreus, you have to get him back! I don’t even know how you could send him away when he’s a part of you –”

“I know!” Atreus snaps, and Hnoss stands, stepping back. “I know he’s a part of me. I know I messed up. But I was just so scared. I was so afraid of what I’d done to my friends, and my father – and of everything I could do. I didn’t want it to happen again. I didn’t want myself to do it again. So I blamed him. And I got so caught up in blaming him that I started to believe that we were really separate beings, that I could really separate myself from him, and I was so stupid –!” Atreus bites back tears and forces himself to continue.

“Everything would have been so much easier if I’d just accepted him. If I’d just accepted myself. I’d have better control over my magic, and my shifting, and my dreams. I’d be okay. Not great, but okay. But I was too afraid to even consider it, and I hated myself so much that I split myself in two just to make someone else take the blame! And now he’s gone, and it’s my fault!”

The tears brimming in his eyes finally spill over and run down his cheeks. Atreus lets out a soft sob and continues, even as his voice shakes, “I know I screwed up, but I just – I just wanted to be okay. I wanted to forget it all. I didn’t want this. I’m sorry.”

Hnoss sighs softly and steps forwards, crouching down to wrap her arms around him. She pulls Atreus close and he cries into her shoulder, sobs occasionally wracking his body.

It’s a few minutes before Hnoss realises Atreus’ shaking has stopped, and his sobs have been replaced by soft whispering. She draws back to look at him, and her words stick in her throat when she sees that his eyes and the marks on his hands and lips are glowing.

He’s whispering the same words, over and over, like a prophecy.

“He is Loki, son of Laufey. He is Loki, son of Fárbauti. He is Loki, hope of the Jötnar. He will join us. At Heimdallr’s hand, he will join us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooly dooly I graduate in just over two weeks that's a scary thought  
> I'm trying to pace this well and I'm not doing a particularly good job oops  
> Thoughts on this and future chapters?  
> And how are you guys going? What's up with you?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus meets his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get to the chapter I just wanted to say sorry for the long wait! I had to get my laptop reset since all the stuff on it was technically the school's property and it took ages because they had to wipe, like, 200.  
> On the plus side I've officially graduated high school which means for the next year or so I'll have a lot more spare time on my hands.  
> Updates should be faster from now on.  
> Enjoy!

Hnoss shakes Atreus, perhaps a little more roughly than necessary, until his chanting stops and he pulls backwards. She looks him over, and he can see from her expression that something’s wrong. It takes him a moment to feel the ache — dulled by the cold around him — that accompanies the Jötnar speaking through him.

Atreus casts his gaze away briefly before turning back to Hnoss. “What did they say?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers back, eyes wide. “Atreus, I — I’m sorry.”

“What?” His blood runs cold and he reaches out, clasping his hands around Hnoss’ forearms. “Hnoss, what did they say?”

“You’re going to die. You’re going to fight Heimdallr and you’re going to die.”

Atreus releases her in shock, hands falling to his sides. “What?” he babbles, eyes wide. “No, I — why — _no_.”

“I knew — I mean, the prophecies said — but I didn’t think __so soon__  —”

“You knew?” Atreus’ gaze snaps up, his voice going hard. “You knew I was going to die and you never told me?”

“Atreus —”

“Why didn’t you _tell me_?!”

“You knew your father was going to die and you didn’t tell him! You just ran away!” Hnoss snaps, before slapping her hands over her mouth. “Atreus, I —”

“No,” he replies, sitting back. “You’re right. Sorry.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Atreus runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “When?”

“Whenever you choose. But it must be soon. Ragnarök is already upon us.”

“And…you know how to get to him. To Heimdallr.”

“I will take you to him,” Hnoss says, “but I will not fight him. I won’t fight my friend.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“It will be difficult without Loki.”

“It’s going to be impossible anyway,” Atreus replies, looking down. “But, Loki is me. So I just have to be Loki, right?”

“I don’t think it works that way. Not anymore. Not since you sent him away.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Atreus gives Hnoss a sad smile, which she returns. He pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand for Hnoss, who accepts it.

“So, I’ll see you when you need me, I guess,” she says, a little awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Atreus murmurs. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Atreus hesitates for just a moment before starting in the direction of his home. He barely makes it ten metres before Hnoss calls, “Atreus!” He just has time to turn around before she crashes into him, and throws her arms around his neck. Atreus barely manages to catch himself from falling. Once he’s stable, he wraps his arms around Hnoss in return.

“Good luck,” she whispers to him, before pulling away. In the moment it takes Atreus to think of a reply, she vanishes into the trees.

Atreus turns again towards his home before stopping to look down at himself. He wonders if, without Loki, he can even reach the magic parts of himself anymore. He holds out his hands, and for a moment there’s nothing. Then his skin gives way to fur, and he surges forwards towards home.

As he enters the clearing around his home, Atreus sheds his wolf skin and walks slowly to the door. He presses a hand against the frame and pushes the door open. For a moment he has to steady himself as he’s hit with the rush of emotions he buried while with Hnoss, then he steps slowly into the house.

“Ah, there you are lad,” says Mimir, now awake and bright eyed, as he enters. “I was thinking — Atreus? What’s wrong, lad?”

Atreus feels the first tear slip from his chin and fall to his hand. It’s like opening a floodgate, the first one giving rise to more and more, a tidal wave he can’t control.

“I’m going to die, Mimir,” he says softly, and there’s something eerie to the way he says it — despite the tears rolling down his cheeks, his voice is steady. “I’m going to die.”

 

When Kratos returns home, it’s to the sight of his son kneeling on the ground, bent over the opening in the floor. He’s motionless, staring down into the hole, with a poise and expression that Kratos can only describe as numb.

“Boy?” he begins softly, then, “Atreus?”

“He’s been like that for almost two days, now,” Mimir pipes up from across the room. “Hasn’t eaten, or slept, or moved. Won’t respond to me.”

Kratos looks between the head and his son, before crossing the floor. He crouches beside Atreus and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Atreus,” Kratos says softly. “Atreus, look at me.”

It takes a moment, but slowly Atreus moves. He sits back on his haunches and turns to face his father. He’s long since stopped crying, having run out of tears, but his eyes are still glassy and red. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but his throat is thick and dry, so he says nothing. After a moment he turns back to the hole, reaches in, and withdraws from the place where Kratos’ blades once stood a bundle of cloth and a pair of boots. Atreus lowers the missing boards back into place, sets the boots down on top, and begins to unwrap the bundle of cloth.

While Atreus does so, Kratos crosses the room to Mimir. “What caused this?”

“The Jötnar spoke to him again.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing good.”

Kratos ties the head to his belt and returns to his son’s side in time to see him open out the last layer of cloth. It takes his mind a moment to understand what his eyes are seeing —after all, he hasn’t seen these items in years. But finally he comes to the realisation that it’s the clothes Atreus wore in Asgard. The pants, tunic, half cloak, and right in the centre, the gold cloak pin.

“Atreus —”

“Teach me how to fight,” the boy says softly, and Kratos falters.

“You know how to fight.”

“With a sword. You said you’d teach me to fight with a sword. Please.”

Kratos sees the look in his son’s eyes — the desperation and the sadness— and slowly he nods. “Eat, first,” he says firmly. “And rest. Then we will train.”

Atreus nods slowly and rises shakily to his feet. Kratos leaves the house to cut apart and treat the kill he brought home, while Atreus takes a change of clothes to bathe. By the time he’s clean and dry, Kratos has a meal prepared for him.

“What happened while I was away?” Kratos asks as Atreus picks at the food in front of him.

“I’ll…I’ll tell you later,” Atreus replies. His voice has grown tireder and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. Kratos only nods, not about to push his son any further in his current state. After all, the boy barely manages to get through his meal before he slumps against the table.

“Atreus?” Kratos asks softly, and is met only with a faint grunt. He sighs softly and stands, circling the table to lift his son up into his arms. “Be kind to yourself,” Kratos murmurs as he crosses the room and lays Atreus down in his bed.

Once he’s sure his son is asleep, Kratos sets Mimir on the table and folds his hands beneath his chin. “What happened?” he asks.

“The lad…he was told…well, the Jötnar said —”

“You’re stalling.”

Mimir sighs and says softly, “He’s going to die.”

“What?” Kratos stares Mimir down as though waiting for him to laugh and say he’s only kidding. When that doesn’t happen, Kratos runs a hand down his face. “When?”

“Soon. When he decides he’s ready.”

Kratos is silent for a moment before declaring, “We’re leaving.”

“You can’t,” Mimir replies, and Kratos raises an eyebrow. “This is bigger than just you, and just him. You take him away, and everything goes wrong.”

“I won’t let him die.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Kratos stares Mimir down for a moment before sighing and slumping back into his chair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Teach him what he wants to know. Be ready to let him go. And be kind to yourself.”

 

Atreus rolls his shoulder into position and takes a swing with his sword. The golden magic cuts a glow through the air as Atreus brings it down in a straight line, then steps forwards and to the right.

“Close,” Kratos says, and Atreus steps back into his starting position. “Elbows bent and close to your body, left foot in front, hips towards your opponent.”

Atreus nods, shifts his position slightly and repeats the action. This time, Kratos nods approvingly and draws the stick he’s using as a makeshift sword.

“Attack me,” he says, adopting a defensive stance. “Keep both hands on the grip at all times. Don’t stab unless your opponent is incredibly vulnerable. I’ll coach you through it.”

Atreus steps forwards and to the right, swinging his sword at an upwards angle this time. Kratos brings his own pretend sword down onto it with enough force to block the attack before twisting the stick around to whack Atreus in the arm.

“Ow!” Atreus complains, dropping his sword to rub at his arm. Kratos swings the sword around again to whack his other arm, earning a disgruntled, “ _Hey_!”

“Never drop your guard.”

“You hit me.”

Kratos chuckles and says playfully, “Should I do it again?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Atreus replies, smiling, as he steps back into the starting position.

“Again,” Kratos says, raising the stick into the starting position. Atreus shifts slightly to match him better, which earns him a nod, then brings the sword around from the left. Kratos parries, catching the sword with his stick. He applies more force, pushing the sword out of the way. He slides the stick off the sword and moves to attack. Atreus quickly steps back, out of Kratos’ reach.

Kratos steps forwards and swipes at Atreus, and the boy lifts the blade of his sword to block the attack. Kratos pulls his sword back and Atreus shifts around him. He swipes, and Kratos twists around, trying to block the attack with the stick. He just manages to knock the tip of the sword away from his side. Kratos takes a couple of steps back, but he’s trying to catch his balance and right his sword at the same time, and Atreus takes the opportunity to jab.

The tip of the sword grazes Kratos’ torso, but before it can go any deeper, the magic dissipates. It falls into glowing fractals along the length of the blade until all that’s left is Atreus’ knife, poised right above Kratos’ heart. Atreus holds the position for a second before stepping back and smiling at his father.

“How was that?” he asks, a hint of mirth in his tone.

“Better,” Kratos praises, nodding.

Atreus whispers to his knife and the magic reforms around it. He fixes his grip and steps into the proper position while Kratos fetches another, undamaged stick.

“Again?” Atreus asks, and Kratos nods.

“Again.”

 

“Hey, buddy,” Atreus says softly, running his hand along the scales above Jörmungandr’s eye. “I figured out why you knew me.”

Jörmungandr grumbles softly and shifts slightly in the water.

“That must have been so long ago for you,” Atreus continues. “You and Thor really did a number on the World Tree. It was probably really confusing to just suddenly be in the past, but you seem like you managed okay.”

Atreus looks out over the Lake and sighs softly. “I probably won’t see you again. I have to fight Heimdallr.”

Jörmungandr gives a low, rumbling groan and speaks in his dead tongue. Atreus gives a wry smile and pats the scale beside him.

“I don’t want to go either, but I don’t really have a choice. It’s written in the prophecies. Father has been training me, though. Teaching me to fight with a sword. So I stand a better chance against Heimdallr.” He chuckles softly, sadly, and looks down. “Not that I really stand a chance, anyway. Not when Heimdallr knows every move I’m going to make before I make it.”

Atreus looks up as Jörmungandr grumbles, rolling his eyes as the giant speaks.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be positive. I’ll do my best.”

Another soft grumble, and Atreus gives a fond smile.

“Thank you. If I need your help, I’ll call for you. But stay here if I don’t call you, okay? You’re in the prophecies, too. Stay safe until it’s your time.”

Jörmungandr gives a final low, begrudging groan. Atreus gives the scales beside him a brief, affectionate pat before standing. Jörmungandr moves his head so that Atreus can walk straight onto dry land.

“Thank you.” Atreus hesitates for a moment before leaning forwards and wrapping his arms, as much as possible, around Jörmungandr’s snout. The Serpent huffs softly, hot air ruffling Atreus’ hair, and the boy chuckles softly. “I’ll miss you, too.” He steps back after a few seconds and smiles up at the Serpent before turning and beginning the walk home.

 

Kratos wakes in the murky grey of dawn. At first he isn’t quite sure what woke him. Then his eyes adjust, enough to see Atreus standing in the centre of the room, fastening his half cloak with the golden snake pin. He looks up, meeting his father’s eyes, and offers the faintest of smiles. It’s nowhere as reassuring as Kratos assumes it’s supposed to be.

Atreus crosses the room and kneels down beside Kratos’ bed. He’s wearing all the clothes the gods gave him, with the waist cloth tied over the top. His eyes are noticeably red, though whether from crying, a lack of sleep, or both, Kratos isn’t sure.

Atreus leans forwards and wraps his arms around his father, and Kratos freezes. It feels so final. So permanent. So much like the end.

“I love you,” Atreus whispers, and it sparks Kratos to wrap his own arms around his son. He pulls him in close, resting his chin on his son’s head. He can feel Atreus shaking.

In that moment, Kratos makes a decision.

“I won’t let you do this,” he says, and Atreus pulls back.

“I have to.”

“No. I won’t let you die for this place. For no reason.”

Atreus gives a sad smile. “I thought you’d say that.” He rests a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Sorry, father. But I need to do this.”

Kratos doesn’t even have time to think before the word, “ _Svefn_ ,” passes his son’s lips, and he feels an overwhelming exhaustion come over him. Atreus’ hand slips from his shoulder as he falls back into his bed. He tries to reach out, but he’s so tired he can’t force himself to move.

Atreus watches sadly as his father collapses back into his bed, eyes closing against his will. He sighs sadly and turns towards the door, pausing only once to look at Mimir, who watches him silently in return. Neither one says a word, and Atreus pushes open the door, stepping out into the dawn.

A thick carpet of snow lies underfoot. It must have snowed the night before, because the blanket of white beneath him was nowhere near as thick the day prior. Atreus moves assuredly through the snow, habit leading him along the path away from the house.

After a few minutes, the trees part beside Atreus and Hnoss falls into step at his side. They walk on in silence, their only contact the occasional bumping of hands or elbows when they walk too close. Atreus says nothing, only follows Hnoss towards what he can only assume is his inevitable death.

They step out from between the trees onto a clear patch of land bordering the edge of a cliff. There stands the Bifröst, stretching up impossibly high into the sky. They both stop just shy of it, standing at just the right distance apart for it to be awkward.

“Atreus,” Hnoss begins, and she can’t look at him.

“I have to.”

“I know.”

“I put father to sleep so I could get away, but he should be waking up soon. Will you…will you keep an eye on him?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

Atreus pats first at his knife, then reaches back to draw his bow. He lifts an arrow, but doesn’t nock it. He can’t bring himself to look at Hnoss, so he leaves it at that and steps onto the Bifröst.

He can feel the change. The shift in the air. Heimdallr knows he’s here. Theoretically, he should have already known. But now, it’s certain. Atreus takes his time, thinking over his options as he walks.

It doesn’t matter, really. Heimdallr already knows everything he’s going to do.

Atreus looks up and his eyes find the form of Heimdallr. The man says nothing, just gives a remorseful look and lifts his sword. Atreus nocks the arrow he’s holding and looses it, drawing and fitting another one immediately. He enchants each one, calling for light and electricity and runic beasts, and Heimdallr bats every one away with his sword.

Atreus slings his bow over his shoulder and draws his knife, summoning the golden magic around it into a sword. He surges forwards, getting dangerously close to Heimdallr, before pulling himself to a stop and stepping backwards in one fluid motion. He brings his sword up vertical and waits for Heimdallr to make a move before blocking it. Heimdallr seems almost impressed that Atreus was able to block the attack, but he wastes no time in pulling his sword away.

Heimdallr adjusts his position and Atreus brings his sword straight down. At the last minute he twists, bringing the sword down at an angle. However, just as Atreus expected, Heimdallr already knows, and easily brings his sword up to block. He pushes at Atreus’ sword and slides his own blade down to nick Atreus’ arm. The boy gives a sharp cry and steps back, grimacing. A fine trail of blood runs down his arm and he flicks his wrist, trying to keep it from slicking his palm.

“It’s not fair,” Heimdallr says, voice low. “To make me fight you. When I know you won’t give up.”

“I can’t,” Atreus replies, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“But you’re only Atreus. You’re not Loki.”

“I am. Just, not right now.”

Heimdallr looks down at him as he raises his sword. “Loki isn’t here.”

Atreus’ eye widen a touch, and he barely recovers in time to block Heimdallr’s attack. He parries, pushes Heimdallr’s sword away and steps forwards, bringing his own around. Heimdallr doesn’t even try to defend, just steps back out of the reach of the blade.

Heimdallr raises his arms, almost an invitation to attack, and Atreus takes the bait. He swings his sword down at an angle and Heimdallr brings his own sword around to block. He lifts his leg and kicks Atreus’ stomach.

Atreus doesn’t quite fly backwards, but it’s damn close. He just barely misses being swiped by Heimdallr, and the only reason the attack doesn’t hit is because he falls flat on his back. Atreus pushes himself to his feet and rises from a crouch to the threat of a blade, which he hastily deflects. Once he’s stable, Atreus shifts his pose to the proper angle. He steps forwards and to the right as he swings his blade around and down, and Heimdallr barely manages to block it with the tip of his sword.

Atreus steps back again, pulling his sword away, and swallows the lump in his throat. He knows he can’t keep this up forever. He’s already feeling drained. He doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t even call on Loki.

_Loki isn’t here _._ _

Realisation smacks Atreus so hard it stuns him. Loki isn’t here, and that’s the problem. As much as he and Loki are the same person, they’re still unique —he can’t just pretend to be Loki, he has to actually be him. That’s why he doesn’t stand a chance — because the prophecies call on Loki, not Atreus. He just needs to get his other half back.

It takes just a second too long for that train of thought to fall into place.

The blade of Heimdallr’s sword sinks into the space between two of Atreus’ ribs and he gives a stunted gasp. His knees give out under him and he drops like a ragdoll.

Atreus hears, from deep inside him, the voices of the Jötnar. They’re speaking again, that same passage they last said through him. _He is Loki, son of Laufey. He is Loki, son of Fárbauti. He is Loki, hope of the Jötnar. He will join us. At Heimdallr’s hand, he will join us._

And then, another sentence.

_And Heimdallr at his._

Atreus looks up at Heimdallr, who stares down at him with a regretful gaze, and smiles.

“This isn’t over,” Atreus murmurs, lips curling into a pained grin.

Heimdallr says nothing, just holds up a hand. The air around Atreus seems to thicken, and he feels that same unraveling feeling that he felt when Freya teleported him away from the Realm Travel Room.

There’s a moment where Atreus is stunned at how empty it feels to no longer have the sword in his chest. Then the moment is over, and he drops deep into mind-numbing cold.

 

Kratos, head still buzzing from the sleep spell he only just overcame, stumbles through the trees in a desperate bid to find his son. He ignores the cries from Mimir that he won’t be able to find the Bifröst without help and hurries on, desperation fueling him.

He just slips between two trees when the air before him changes, at first imperceptibly, and then almost as though solidifying. Then a form appears about a metre above the ground and falls into the snow.

At first, Kratos can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. It’s half covered in snow and there’s bright crimson staining the white and the way it’s laying isn’t comfortable for any human. Then reality hits him and he surges forwards, eyes roaming over the finely made clothes, the shaking pale skin, the familiar red hair.

“Atreus,” Kratos breathes, falling to his knees beside his son. He grasps at him, pulling the boy into his lap. He sees the entry wound, and can feel the exit wound beneath his hand. The boy’s head lolls lifelessly, and Kratos’ heart freezes. “ _Atreus_.”

Atreus gives a shuddering breath, and blood passes his lips, but he opens his eyes. It takes them a moment to focus, but then those two ice blues eyes settle on Kratos, and he gives the faintest hint of a smile.

“No, no,” Kratos utters, cradling his son to his chest. “Please, no, I cannot lose you. Not again.”

“It’s okay.” Atreus reaches up in an attempt to comfort his father, but he’s so weak that all he manages to do is leave faint smears of blood on Kratos’ face. “It’ll be okay.”

Kratos blinks, and his vision swims with tears. He cups Atreus’ cheek, murmuring pleas and curses, and as he blinks away the tears blurring his vision, he looks down to find Atreus has stopped moving.

His son is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both are lost, and they both are found.

Atreus is cold. Colder than he’s ever been. It pierces his skin, chilling him bone-deep. When he opens his eyes, he knows where he is, even without the prophecies of the Jötnar. He’s in Helheim.

All around him, shuffling, ambling spirits lumber deeper into the depths of Hel, their moans and groans the only sounds other than a low, whistling breeze. Atreus draws his half cloak tighter around himself and starts forwards, just in an attempt to generate warmth. The spirits all seem to be moving in the same direction, and with nowhere better to go, Atreus moves to follow them.

There are obvious signs left along the path of his father’s presence here. The armour of a fallen warrior; the charred remains of Hel-bramble; the forced-open doors. Where Atreus cannot open the doors — where they’re blocked by a magical force he can’t combat — he climbs them, fingers working into the cracks and crevices in the stone. There are golden markings along the sides of the paths, on lower platforms and leading to hidden arenas, but Atreus is afraid of taking the passages down in case he can’t return.

That, and the urge drawing him deeper into Helheim, like a tether he cannot ignore.

It’s his people, he knows, calling to him.

Atreus drops carefully down from the top of one of the walls, taking a moment to breathe. He could try flying over, but he doesn’t even know if his powers will work here. They had weakened already without Loki. He doesn’t know what’s left.

Atreus lingers in place for a moment before walking to the next wall. The door is thankfully open, and he places a hand against it. For a second, Atreus pauses. Something about the scenario doesn’t seem right. He looks up at the lost souls ambling past, and then back at his own hand.

Then it clicks.

Atreus draws his hand — his real, corporeal, _flesh_ hand — away from the wall and stares down at it. It’s not possible. He’s dead and in Helheim and yet —

Atreus yanks at the collar of his tunic, pulling it down hurriedly. There’s a scar on the flesh between two ribs — the wound has healed. Completely. Atreus’ hand flies to his throat and he presses two fingers deep into the side, feeling for a pulse.

Faint. _There_.

Atreus doubles over, pressing his hand to the wall to stop himself from falling. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _understand_!

He died, and now he’s alive, but in the realm of the dead. He can’t comprehend it. It doesn’t make sense.

And yet, here he is. Atreus has no doubt it has something to do with the Jötnar calling to him. Drawing him closer.

Atreus sighs heavily and stands upright. He reaches back — yes, his arrow and quiver are still slung over his shoulder. And there, his knife, on his belt. He still doesn’t understand but he feels like if he tries to, he’ll just end up hurting himself.

Stepping through the doorway, Atreus finds himself in front of a final pair of closed doors. They’re massive — he’d have no hope of opening them, even if they weren’t sealed with a magic so strong it threatened to topple him — and so Atreus steps forwards and hooks his fingers into the cracks of the wall. As he hauls himself to the top, he looks up and sees something incredible.

A bird.

A giant bird.

Atreus hauls himself up onto the top of the wall and makes sure he’s steady before he cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Hey! Can you hear me?”

The bird turns its attention in his general direction and Atreus cocks his head. He thought it would be too much to ask for, but there was no harm in trying. The bird continues to survey the realm before giving a loud screech at something to Atreus’ left. The boy leans forwards slightly to observe the bird better, and he just comes to the conclusion that the beast is an eagle when he loses his balance and pitches forwards.

Atreus hits the ground on his back with a soft yelp and a groan. He lays there for a minute before letting out a soft, annoyed, “Ow.” Atreus opens his eyes and tips his head back so he’s looking along the ground of the bridge. Much of his vision is blocked by what looks like a corpse.

With a grunt, Atreus pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the body. It’s that of a troll, and its chest is torn open. Atreus remembers his father telling him, on one of the worst days of Fimbulwinter, how he had to fight the Bridge Keeper and take his heart. Atreus is only alive because of the beast before him.

Atreus feels bad leaving the body there, with no one to move it, but he has to keep going — has to keep following the tether to the Jötnar.

The only problem with that, is the bridge ends.

Atreus steps up to the edge of the bridge and looks around him. He could fly, but he’s scared to. His eyes land on the lost souls, stumbling off the edge of the bridge — and continuing over empty air. The bridge continues for the souls. Atreus is dead, and alive, and he wonders if the bridge will hold for him.

Crouching, Atreus reaches a tentative hand out to the air. His fingers seem first like they will keep going, and just as he is about to pull back, his fingertips brush solid ground. Atreus stands and puts one foot slowly out in front of him. Solid ground appears beneath him, invisible but present, and he puts more weight onto it. When the bridge doesn’t give way, Atreus puts his full weight onto it. It holds firm.

The tug within Atreus draws him deeper into Helheim, and he does not deny it. He grins, and breaks into a sprint, running along the bridge into the depths of Hel.

 

Kratos stares down at his son, his eyes wide. He can’t grasp the reality before him. He cups his son’s cheek, brushes his hair back from his face, pulls him close.

“No,” Kratos whispers, screwing his eyes shut as fresh tears rise. “No, no, _please_. Not again. Please, not again.”

The weight in Kratos’ lap shifts, and for a single second he is able to trick himself into believing his son is moving. Then he opens his eyes, and discovers a nightmare.

Atreus is coming apart, dissipating into the same golden dust Faye’s ashes had become when they scattered them in Jötunheimr.

Kratos freezes, horror coursing through his veins. He clings desperately to his son, as though he can hold him together, but the dust slips through his fingers, until there’s nothing left of Atreus. Not even the blood that stained the snow.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then Kratos erupts.

Flames break out across his skin — bigger, brighter, hotter than ever — and he roars — a roar of anger, and desperation, and defeat. Kratos hunches over, curling in on himself, as he screams and roars his pain into the ice and snow.

And as he screams — as the tears evaporate before they are shed — his flames burn on, and on, and on.

 

Atreus steps off the invisible bridge into the depths of Helheim and stops. The tether is pulling him deeper into the realm, where the structures are crumbling. There are no golden marks here — no help left by his mother.

The thought makes him pause. Does she even know he came here? Did her vision extend this far? He knows she could see into Helheim — she left the paths for his father to reach the Gate Keeper, meaning her reach extended to the realm itself. But was it stopped by his death? Did she lose sight of him after he died? Was his mother left thinking Atreus had fallen, and would go on to suffer in Helheim? Did she think all that she had done to send him in the right direction, to help her people, was for nothing?

Had she died thinking his last moments would be spent suffering, and in pain?

Atreus shakes his head, growling a soft, “Snap out of it,” to himself. Even if that was the furthest his mother’s visions reached, he can’t dwell on it. He can’t let all her work — all her efforts to guide him and pave the way — be in vain. He has to keep going.

And so he does.

Deeper into the pits of Helheim Atreus goes, following the calling inside of him like a thread, leading him to the heart of the realm. He climbs crumbling ruins, ignoring the pain of fingernails torn in crevices, and scratches from chipped stone, and bruises from falls where his handholds weren’t quite stable.

He stops, after dropping down from a particularly tricky wall, and looks in the direction the tether is drawing him in. It’s there he sees the bird again, perched in the very centre of Helheim. Even as Atreus watches, the bird spreads its wings and beats them together, creating a massive wind. Atreus gapes up in awe of the beast as his mind finally connects the dots.

“You’re Hræsvelg,” he cries, though he knows he has no chance of being heard. “You’re another Jötunn! Jörmungandr and I aren’t the last ones.” Atreus’ grin slips back into a disappointed smile. “I guess you can’t leave here, though, huh? Someone has to create the winds in all the realms.”

He must be a mere ant to the beast, but for just a second, Atreus swears the bird looks at him. He gives a small wave. Just in case.

He keeps going, finding himself growing ever closer to the centre of Helheim. He keeps finding himself climbing down walls further than he climbs up them, meaning he’s undeniably going lower in the realm. He’s not surprised to discover that the Jötnar are in the very depths of Helheim — Odin would love nothing more than to have the souls of his enemies suffer eternally in the deepest parts of the realm.

Atreus comes to a stop in a small, walled in pit, and takes a moment to look around in an attempt to find the best way out. The wall before him appears to have once been an open passage, but the sides have crumbled inwards. It’s probably his best bet of getting out.

_“How’s your brother?”_

Atreus whirls around, startled at the sudden voice, and he just manages to catch a glimpse of a figure sitting perched on the high wall to his right before it disappears.

“Hey!” Atreus calls, running forwards. He jumps, catching a small ledge and vaulting himself up. His hands scrabble for purchase and he suppresses a groan as another fingernail breaks against the uneven stone wall. He manages to pulls himself up in time to see a shadowy figure appear on top of a large rock pillar.

 _“My father,”_ the figure says. _“He’s alive, isn’t he?”_

There’s something so familiar about it, but Atreus doesn’t have time to comprehend the scene before the figure continues.

 _ _“_ Oh, good.” _There’s an unnatural pause, like the being is skipping words, then, _“Say hello to him for me, won’t you?”_

Atreus stares up at the figure, his mind reeling. He can’t understand, can’t comprehend —

Then the figure stands, and jumps, and Atreus watches in horror as he realises — as the shadowy person shifts their shape, becoming a bird that flies down, right at him, and dissipates into freezing cold smoke as it hits his chest.

Atreus reels. That was him. That was him that was him that was him —

Helheim causes suffering to those trapped in its depths, showing them terrifying visions and their most torturous memories. And that’s what it’s doing now — showing Atreus the acts he committed under the guise of Loki.

He has to get away — has to get to the Jötnar before more of his memories start manifesting themselves. He feels the tether drawing him back to his left and runs, heart pounding as he leaps between pillars and ledges, trying to outrun his memories.

Another shadowy version of himself appears, stunning him, this one with a bow drawn and aimed right at him.

 _ _“_ Then you’re of no use to me,” _other-Atreus says.

“You won’t do it,” Atreus whispers, remember his father’s words from that day — as though he could ever forget them.

_“Won’t I?”_

The ghostly arrow strikes Atreus’ shoulder and it, along with the other-Atreus, become that same freezing smoke. Atreus keeps going, fleeing from the figures he knows are following him — the memories he knows he can’t escape.

There’s a giggle — a _giggle_ — dark and monstrous and so, so familiar — a giggle that he remembers following the revelation that he’d shot his father with a poison-tipped arrow. It catches Atreus so off guard that he misses a jump and ends up toppling down into a pit. He rolls, crying out as the rough ground scratches up his back and arms, and comes to a stop against a wall. Atreus lingers for a moment, panting heavily, and when he pushes himself upright there’s another ghostly figure crouched in front of him.

Atreus scrambles backwards, his back slamming into the wall behind him as he tries to get away from the figure. The other-him leans forwards and whispers, _“I’m a god, too.”_

Atreus wails, screwing his eyes shut and pressing his hands over his ears. He tries to drown it out, to drown it all out, the memories and the pain and the torture. He curls in on himself, sobbing into his knees even as his hands begin to lose feeling, and he stops being able to feel his tears, and he gets so cold, so, so cold, and so very numb.

_Atreus._

Just a whisper. Barely there — almost lost to him. Then again.

_Atreus._

Stronger this time, like more voices. Calling to him.

_Stay strong._

And that’s it. The voices fade, and he knows they will say no more, but Atreus raises his head. He looks down at his hands and suppresses a cry when he realises he can see through them. They’re translucent and blue, just like the lost souls that he had followed to the bridge. Looking at his torso Atreus sees he was beginning to lose form — beginning to lose himself. Any longer and he would have been lost to the torture.

Atreus sits, shaking, against the wall as his body becomes solid again. He stares ahead, trying to see where he needs to go. The pull is so strong now. He’s so close.

They’re just memories, he tells himself. He already knows what he did. They can’t hurt him anymore. He’s better. He’s moved on. And he has to keep moving.

When the feeling returns to his limbs, and he’s as warm as Helheim will allow, Atreus pushes himself to his feet. He draws his half cloak tighter around himself and walks forwards, without hesitation.

“Come on,” he says, voice low, to the empty air. “Give me your worst.”

There’s a stone archway ahead, leading to what Atreus is sure is the very depths of Helheim. He is stopped just short of it by another memory. The other-him appears on his knees, knife buried deep in Atreus’ stomach. For some reason, this memory doesn’t disappear.

 _“I’m sorry,”_  the other-him whispers, and Atreus knows exactly where this is going. __“_ I don’t want to. I’m so sorry, I don’t want to.”_

“Then don’t.” Atreus waves his hand through the spectre and it disappears.

Nothing else comes for him, and he follows the path to the archway. It takes him less than a minute to reach it, but before he can step inside, another spectre appears.

This one is different. It feels different. He can’t recall what memory it’s showing him — doesn’t know how to feel. Atreus pauses and walks over to it, pausing. He sees himself, wearing only an undershirt and swaddled in furs, looking down at something held out to him.

 _“No,”_ the spectre whispers, and something deep inside Atreus recoils. __“_ Never again.”_

Atreus blinks, and suddenly his vision is swimming with tears. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know why this memory is hurting him. He doesn’t know why the void inside him is aching.

And slowly, slowly, he realises.

This isn’t his most torturous memory.

_It’s Loki’s._

This is the moment he first shunned the other side of himself. The moment he first pushed him away.

Atreus steps forwards and waves a hand through the memory. It dissipates, but another being remains in its place. This one still looks like him, but different — less like the smokey memories and more like the lost souls. Atreus’ heart skips a beat as he realises he isn’t looking at another memory.

He’s looking at Loki.

“This is where you went,” he whispers, kneeling before the soul. “When I sent you away.”

Atreus receives no response. He didn’t expect any.

“I’m sorry. I — I didn’t know. I didn’t want this. I was just…so scared. I wanted someone to blame it on. But I was wrong — I see that now. You were right all along.”

Loki raises his head, and he looks…a little more stable.

“Please,” Atreus murmurs, reaching out a hand and closing his eyes. “Please, come back.”

For one torturous moment, there is nothing. Then Atreus feels the faintest brush of fingers against his palm. His eyes snap open with a gasp, but Loki is no longer in front of him.

But that’s okay.

He’s right back where he belongs.

Atreus feels the warmth spread inside him and he presses his hands over his chest, feeling the way Loki reaches out to fill the void. He closes his eyes again and laughs, a happy, content laugh.

“Welcome back,” Atreus says, smiling.

He pushes himself to his feet and turns back to the archway. “Come on. We’ve still got a job to do.”

Atreus steps through the archway into what appears to be an open arena. Nothing immediately runs to attack him, so he takes his time looking around. There are several different pathways he could take, but he puts them all on hold to study a large wall of rock across the arena. There are drawings and carvings etched into it, almost identical to the ones he found in Jötunheimr. Only, these depict very different scenes.

The first few carvings show things that happened to him over the past three years — his shifting, his magic, his conversations with Jörmungandr. Each of these drawings is small, almost inconsequential. Then comes the first large one — an image of him and a young woman in the forest. _Hnoss._ Another of the large carvings depicts the same image in Jötunheimr of Atreus holding his father’s body, and Jörmungandr above them.

The next few panels don’t make much sense. They’re messily scrawled, seeming almost out of place in his timeline. It’s a circle of blue figures, all facing inwards. Atreus traces his fingers over the design, wondering if maybe these are some of the Jötnar that call to him. Or, at least, what remains of their souls.

Beyond that is another set of smaller carvings — Atreus and his father resting after the fight with Thor; the trip with Mimir to see Freya; the visit to the woods with Mimir. And beside them is another large carving, depicting Atreus, with a great void inside him.

“You got that right,” he murmurs, tracing his fingertips over the stone.

The next carvings begin to rapidly decrease in quality, as though the souls struggled to carve them out before losing themselves entirely to the tortures of Helheim. There’s his training with his father, and his battle with Heimdallr, and a panel Atreus can just make out to be his body in his father’s arms, surrounded by strange golden dots.

The final two panels confuse him. One shows what he believes to be a massive boat — looking up, Atreus can just see the outline of one against the sky. And the other, which is the lowest quality by far — more scratches and lines than art — depicts Atreus — he thinks — back on the Bifröst, and a large black blur forming behind him. Then the carvings end.

Atreus is more than a little confused, and rightfully so. He steps back, as though observing the carvings from a distance will make them make more sense. When he can draw no further conclusions, Atreus turns around, and jumps.

Standing there, looking right at him, is a soul.

 

Long after Kratos exhausts his fire he remains hunched over in the snow, unseeing gaze trained on the ground below him. He does not move, does not speak, barely breathes for so long that Mimir begins to worry he is beyond recognition. Then finally, finally, the broken man speaks.

“Mimir?” he says, voice soft, and that, coupled with the fact that he used the man’s name, is enough to stun Mimir into silence for a good minute.

“Yes?” he eventually replies, equally as quietly.

“There is nothing left for me here. I will move on. Would you…like to travel again?”

Mimir is silent for a moment, before a sad smile ghosts across his lips. “I would,” he replies, and he’d nod if he could. “I really would.”

Kratos slowly pushes himself to his feet, casting one final glance at the ground where he knelt before turning to walk away.

“Where will you go?” Mimir asks.

“I do not know. Where do you suggest?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could think of a few places.”

The corner of Kratos’ lip twitches up ever-so-slightly. Then his expression falls again as he hears the sound of branches snapping behind him, and the desperate cry of, “Kratos!”

Resentment and anger flash across his face and he reaches back, slowly drawing one of his Blades. It makes a clean, metallic ringing sound as he draws it, and as he turns around, Kratos sees Hnoss flinch away.

“You,” he growls, and her eyes widen. “You were the one who led my son to the Bifröst. You were the one who led him to his death. You were the one who took everything from me.”

“Kratos,” Hnoss says slowly, holding up her hands as non-threateningly as possible, “please just listen —”

Kratos takes a step towards her, his rage growing so strong that the flames he had all but diminished begin to again flicker to life along his arms. “You led my son to his death. I do not have to listen to anything you have to say.”

Fear flashes across Hnoss’ face and she takes a step back. “I didn’t have a choice, Kratos! Please —”

“You always had a choice!” he roars, the flames along his arms flaring brighter. “But you led him to the Bifröst! Walked him right to his death!” Kratos stalks towards her, swinging the Blade.

Hnoss stumbles back and throws up her arms with a desperate cry of, “It’s Atreus!”

Kratos freezes, the Blade inches from Hnoss’ raised arms. He stares down at her, and utters a soft, low, “What?”

Hnoss exhales with a relieved gasp, arms dropping, as the flames adoring Kratos fade away. She takes a few shuddering breaths before speaking. “We were wrong,” she says, trying to calm herself down as best as possible. “ _I_  was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” Kratos asks, lowering the Blade.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You need to come with me. You need to see.”

Kratos stares her down for a moment before begrudgingly returning his Blade to its place on his back. There’s another tense moment of silence between the two of them before he growls, “Go.”

Hnoss, still reeling from her near-death experience, nods once before sprinting into the trees.

 

The soul is not hunched and shaking like all the others Atreus has encountered. It stands straight, watching him. It's tall, too — taller than him by at least a head. And its form seems a little more solid than the others'.

Maybe that's what sparks the reaction in Atreus. Maybe it's the voices of his people, no longer so distant. Maybe it's his re-connection with Loki. For whatever reason, Atreus reaches up, and brushes his fingertips over the soul's left shoulder.

Brushes his fingertips over its shoulder.

_Touches it._

Atreus' eyes widen and he presses his palm to the spirit's shoulder, needing to be sure. It does not dissipate under him, does not give way to his hand as all the others did. Rather, if anything, it seems to be becoming more solid.

Atreus draws his hand back and sees that the place where he touched is changing — colour spreading out across the collar and down onto the arm. The form begins to solidify, becoming more alive with every passing second.

Atreus gives a soft, guttural sob and reaches up, cupping the spirit's cheeks. Immediately, colour begins to spread from beneath his hands. A second later, the spirit places its — her — now solid left hand over Atreus' right. She wraps her fingers around his hand and, after a moment, steps back, drawing him after her.

The woman holds tight to Atreus' hand as she leads him away from the carvings and deeper into the ruins. At one point she looks back, as though to check he is still there, and Atreus is struck by recognition. The woman in front of him is the one whose memories he saw when he touched the first statue in Jötunheimr.

She's a Jötunn. Atreus has found them.

Hot tears threaten to spill over, but Atreus forces them down as they step out from under a crumbling arch, and he _sees._

He sees souls, lost and wandering, all clustered together among the crumbling stone. Some of the souls are short, others taller than Atreus, and others still that are so tall they scrape the sky, hunched over and shaking. And he can hear them now — no longer calling from inside himself but there, right in front of him.

The woman holding Atreus' hand releases it and he steps away from her, reaching out to the closest soul. Atreus touches his fingers to the cheek of the flickering form in front of him, and the colour that spreads from his touch reveals the face of a child. Anger and regret pinch at Atreus' heart upon seeing the girl, caught in a war she likely didn't understand. He steps away from her and brushes his fingertips up the arm of another spirit.

Atreus keeps going, making his way through the crowd of lost souls and touching as many as he can, passing along the life that still pounds impossibly in his veins. At one point he looks up, and sees that the life is spreading through even the Jötnar he has not touched. They are spreading it to each other.

A bright, bubbling sense of hope fills Atreus — one he has not felt in a long time — and he begins to move faster, touching as many of the surrounding Jötnar as possible. The hope inside him begins to grow, becoming stronger and brighter the more souls are reached, until soon Loki is laughing with sheer joy as solid, living, breathing Jötnar surround him.

"Loki!" calls a voice, and he spins, the Jötnar around him drawing back to reveal the woman who met him at the carving.

"Hello," Loki says, stepping forwards. He's suddenly out of place and unsure of himself.

The woman gives him a smile and reaches out, taking both of his hands in both of hers. “You’re finally here,” she murmurs, her smile warm enough to chase away the cold of Helheim.

“You’re the ones who were calling to me,” Loki says, looking around in awe. “All of you — thank you. It must have been such a strain on you all to reach out to me. I never would have made it here without you all.”

The woman before him bows her head briefly before releasing his hands. “My name is Angrboða. After the decimation of our race at the hands of the Æsir, I became the closest thing we had to a leader. But eventually, those few of us who remained were lost, too. You bring with you the hope of the Jötnar.”

Loki’s smile falls slightly and he looks down. “You know what I almost did?”

“We know.” Angrboða reaches out to lift Loki’s chin. “And we are proud of you for finding your way again.”

Atreus smiles faintly, offering a grateful glance to Angrboða. Then he takes a step back and looks around at the ring of Jötnar around him. “What now?” he asks, turning back. “What happens next?”

Angrboða’s smile fades and she clasps her hands together. “We were hoping you would know.”

Atreus opens his mouth to reply, then stops. He looks past Angrboða in the direction she brought him, then presses a hand to his chest. He feels himself flare up inside and nods, striding purposefully forwards. “Follow us,” Atreus calls, beckoning for his people.

They stop at the massive carved tablet and Atreus runs his fingertips over the second last inscription. “We’re going to need a boat,” he calls, turning to look at the Jötnar behind him. From the expressions on their faces, it’s obvious many of them do not recognise the carvings. Perhaps they were already so far gone when they made them that even returning to life does not restore their memories.

“That one up there,” Angrboða says, pointing to the ship Atreus saw earlier. “Will it do?”

Atreus grins. “It was exactly what I had in mind.”

Together, the Jötnar scale the crumbling walls and treacherous land of the depths of Helheim, drawing on each other to safely reach the land on which the great boat sits.

“ _Naglfar_ ,” Angrboða whispers when she reaches it, as though some part of her has latched onto a memory. She turns to Atreus and nods. “It will hold. It was built for just this occasion.”

Loki nods in reply and hoists himself up into the massive ship. He turns back towards the onlooking Jötnar and calls out to them.

“As many of you as possible, join us on this boat. Those of you who do not fit, follow from the shoulders of our tallest. We all will leave here together. The Æsir will never know what hit them.”

Loki watches as his people climb into the boat, helping to haul in those nearest to him. When the boat is almost full he steps away from the edge and moves to the bow of the ship, looking back at it. Angrboða steps up beside him and follows his gaze.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, and Loki runs a hand through his hair with a sigh.

“I’m thinking —” he begins, then he stops. It’s Atreus who looks up at the sail and beams, “Lanterns.”

“Lanterns?”

“Trust me!” Atreus bounds down into the crowd of Jötnar and cups his hands around his mouth. “I want those sails released!” he shouts, and immediately the Jötnar closest to their supports leap to follow his word, drawing weapons and freeing the sails.

Atreus runs to one of the piles of Hel-bramble along the sides of the ship and holds out a hand to the Jötnar who had intended to clear it away. He swings his hand around so his palm is outstretched towards the bramble and whispers, “ _Brenna loga_.”

Nothing happens. No flames burst to life in the bramble. There’s not even a trace of smoke. He tries again, and still nothing.

Angrboða comes up behind Atreus and places a hand on his shoulder. “No fire in all the Nine Realms can exist here,” she murmurs. “Believe me, we have tried.”

“My father cleared the Hel-bramble to get to the Gate Keeper,’ Atreus mutters, staring down at the pile before him. “There must be something I can do.”

There’s a moment where neither of his halves can think of anything. Then Loki surfaces, brushing Angrboða's hand from his shoulder with a warning of, “Stand back.” She, and the other Jötnar around Loki, step back from him, and he calls on the flames of his Spartan Rage with a grin. It’s been a while. He relishes, for a moment, in the feeling of the fire racing along his skin, then he reaches back and draws and arrow from his quiver. Even as he touches it, the arrow catches alight, and without so much as a second glance, Loki drops it into the Hel-bramble.

The result is strangely satisfying.

“How did you do that?” Angrboða asks, hurrying after Loki as he moves on to the next pile.

“Easy,” he replies, drawing another arrow. “You said no fire from all the nine realms can burn here. So I brought a fire that is not of these realms.”

The Jötnar watch on in awe as Atreus lights the second pile of bramble, and the heat rising from the pair catches in the released sails. Within moments they’re lifting up, and Loki calls a final order to those Jötnar who could not fit in the boat to stay close.

Relinquishing his fire, Loki presses a hand to the side of the boat. He channels his magic into his palm and is immediately struck by a vision. He sees, for just a moment, their path to escape — and it is not an easy one.

“We’re going to be attacked on all sides,” Loki says, stepping away from the side of the ship. The Jötnar pass for him as he approaches, forming a path to the bow of the boat. “They will try to anchor us down. I need our strongest stationed along all sides of the ship, prepared to free us. The rest of us, we fight to protect ourselves from whatever makes it aboard. Do not let this ship go down.”

As if on cue, there’s a great screeching sound as a harpoon flies through the air and buries itself in the side of the ship. Loki draws his knife, summoning his magic into the form of a sword, as monsters scale the ship before him, and behind him, the Jötnar roar.

 

Hnoss and Kratos emerge from the trees onto the same cliff where she left Atreus. The Bifröst still stands in place, unmoved, as though the Æsir cannot be bothered to move it.

“What have you dragged me here to see?” Kratos growls, voice low, and before Hnoss can reply, they are both assaulted by the deafening call of a horn. Kratos looks up, and up, and up, gaze impossibly finding Heimdallr on the Bifröst — there’s no way he should be able to see the god, and yet there he stands. Perhaps magic bends the vision of the bridge. Perhaps he is gloating.

The horn sounds again, and Kratos realises that it’s Heimdallr who’s blowing it. Beside him, Hnoss stands rigid, but her eyes are wide and wild. Mimir is uncharacteristically quiet, and that unnerves Kratos. He doesn’t know why Heimdallr is sounding an alarm.

And then he sees.

The earth shakes with the footfalls of invisible giants, who come into the world in a golden dust. High in the sky above, a ship — bruised by battle but still in one piece — forms from thing air, and Heimdallr gives a final, desperate blow of the horn.

Kratos’ gaze is drawn to the ship. Or, rather, its crew. In particular, to the apparent master of the ship, who stands, perfectly poised and unafraid, at the bow of the ship.

Kratos doesn’t dare believe what he’s seeing.

Because it’s Atreus.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys! I had to put this chapter on the backburner due to a commission (casual reminder that I do both art and written commissions in case you guys were ever interested) and a contest, but since today was my birthday I decided to cram this chapter out as a gift to all of you!  
> If all goes to plan there should only be a couple of chapters left.  
> Leave your thoughts in the comments! I love reading what you guys have to say.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are both found, and they both find.

For a moment, Kratos’ mind struggles to understand exactly what his eyes are perceiving. Then it clicks for him — his son is alive. He moves to lunge forwards, but Hnoss catches hold of his arm.

“Don’t,” she blurts, releasing Kratos when his attention snaps towards her. “The Bifröst — it’s going to come down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Jötnar walking across it will bring it down, and if you’re on the Bifröst when that happens, you will fall with it.”

As if to prove a point, the ground around them begins to rumble with the footsteps of half-formed Jötnar. Hnoss grabs Kratos’ arm again and pulls him back into the trees, away from the exposed cliff edge.

“My son is up there,” Kratos says when they top moving, jerking a finger towards the boat high above them. Its path undeniably takes it towards the Bifröst, and beyond to Asgard.

“I know. I know, but he’ll be okay.”

“How can you say that? He died, Hnoss — he was killed on that bridge, and you want me to let him —”

“Yes, I want you to let him go. You don’t understand Kratos, this is his fate. Loki and Heimdallr are fated to kill each other, but only Loki died. His fate isn’t over yet. He’ll be okay!”

“Fate can be changed, believe me.”

Hnoss shakes her head. “Not his,” she replies, though her tone is darker than her expression.

Kratos looks away from Hnoss, back up towards the boat, gaze landing on it in time to see a small form drop from the bow to the Bifröst below.

 

Atreus hits the Bifröst a little harder than he would have liked, but he’s survived worse. He pushes himself upright and raises his head, looking down his nose at a stunned Heimdallr.

“Impossible,” the god breathes, wide eyes trained on Atreus’ slowly approaching form.

“I owe you a death,” Atreus replies simply. His expression twists into a faint smirk. “What? Didn’t foresee this?”

Heimdallr doesn’t reply, just draws his sword and readies himself. With the boy in front of him he can see the two possible futures — if Atreus stands before him, he’ll draw his bow and fire at Heimdallr’s right shoulder. If it’s Loki, he’ll form his sword and swing it at Heimdallr’s left-side stomach.

Atreus draws his bow, and Heimdallr raises his sword to defend himself, but the arrow that Atreus releases sinks itself deep into his left knee. Heimdallr gapes, a gasp of pain lodging in his throat. He reaches hurriedly down to yank the arrow from his knee, barely missing being struck again when he stands.

“How —”

There’s no response, just another arrow so close it cuts a line through his cheek. Heimdallr staggers backwards, righting himself quickly and lifting his sword in a defensive position.

Atreus will shoot at his left, Loki will fire at his right —

Loki surges forwards, knife forming into a sword even as he lunges. Heimdallr barely manages to sidestep the attack, swinging his sword around after Loki. He catches the young god, but his aim is sloppy, and he barely grazes Loki’s elbow.

Loki will back up and lunge, Atreus will swing around at his right —

Atreus dashes around to Heimdallr’s left, sword spinning after him. Heimdallr cries out as it catches his side, cutting uncomfortably deep.

“Who _are_ you?” he _pleads_ , spinning after the young god. His knee buckles where Atreus shot it, and Heimdallr has to lean his weight on his sword to stop himself from falling.

“I am Loki,” says Atreus, “and I am Atreus,” says Loki. He releases the magic on his sword and slips the knife back into his belt, drawing his bow again. He circles Heimdallr slowly.

Loki will fire at his left side —

The arrow flies towards his right shoulder, and Heimdallr barely manages to cut through it. Another grazes his side, and a third his leg. The boy is toying with him.

“Is this how you feel when you fight people?” Atreus asks, nocking another arrow.

Atreus will shoot —

Heimdallr dodges the arrow, which crackles with wild lightning, and cuts through the one glowing with an inhuman light.

“Because that’s how people feel when they fight you.”

Loki will —

The arrow lodges deep into his thigh and Heimdallr cries out, stumbling. In a second, Atreus is at his side, then suddenly Heimdallr is reeling backwards from a punch he doesn’t remember receiving. Mind reeling, he doesn’t notice Atreus in time, and the boy sweeps his legs out from under him. Heimdallr hits the Bifröst hard, sword spinning away from his reach.

Atreus walks towards the sword and bends down. He slings his bow back over his chest as he lifts the blade, testing its weight in his hands. Loki reaches out, an offer — he will take the burden if Atreus doesn’t want to bear it. But Atreus declines. This is his retribution.

“You tortured my father,” he says, throwing a dark glare over his shoulder. Heimdallr can only watch as the young god walks towards him and crouches at his side. “He told me how he fought you. How you left him within an inch of his life, then dropped him in the snow. How he was only trying to get to me, and you almost killed him.

“And then you tortured him again, didn’t you? You dropped my body right into his lap. You monster.” Atreus’ expression goes cold, and he stands up. He holds the sword out in front of him, right hand flat against the blade. “I’m just returning the favour.”

Magic flows through Atreus’ veins, the same deep, powerful magic that he used to bring his father back to life. Only this time, it’s dark, twisted. It forms a word in his throat, one that escapes him in barely a whisper.

“ _Bloðorn_ ,” Atreus breathes, and pain rips through him, burning the curse onto the blade in his hands and focusing between his shoulder blades. In the same way it did when he brought back his father, the magic forms a thick smoke, only this smoke is black as pitch and twists itself out behind Atreus. For a second he recalls the carving in Helheim — the black fog behind him forming an incomprehensible shape. Then his attention is back on the blade, which glows with a menacing light.

Atreus says nothing, just raises the sword above his head and brings it down through Heimdallr’s chest. The god screams, back arching as he tries in vain to separate himself from the pain. He keeps screaming, writhing in pain and with tears flowing freely, even as Atreus turns away.

 

“Heimdallr!” Hnoss screams, voice cracking as she surges forwards, ignorant of her own advice, towards the Bifröst. Kratos makes an effort to stop her, but she’s faster and more nimble, and she’s out of sight before he can properly react.

“What is that?” Kratos asks, eyes trained on the solidifying smoke high above him. He unhooks Mimir from his belt and holds the head up to see.

“Fenrir,” Mimir says simply, and Kratos gives him a glare. “He’s prophesied to devour the world,” the head elaborates, and Kratos wishes he hadn’t.

“I need to get up there.”

“You heard Hnoss.”

“I did. And then she ignored her own advice.”

“Which was very foolish. She may need help.”

“What of Atreus?”

“He just put a sword through an unbeatable god. I don’t think he’ll be having any problems.”

Kratos gives a curt nod and ties Mimir back to his belt. He makes to follow Hnoss, but pauses as something up on the Bifröst catches his attention. Atreus raises an arm and brings it down in the direction of Asgard. Fenrir gives a long, low howl and leaps forwards. Just as Hnoss had said, the weight of his feet pounding against the Bifröst begins to crack it.

Atreus cups his hands around his mouth and shouts out something Kratos doesn’t understand, something that echoes much louder than it should. Then he leaps up into the air, limbs twisting in on themselves to form the shape of an raven. Atreus flies up, hovers for a moment in midair, then rockets after Fenrir.

Kratos lets out a shaky sigh and breaks into a run.

 

Hnoss sprints up the Bifröst, ignorant of the cracks racing along it from Fenrir’s weight. She skids to a stop beside Heimdallr, crying out his name as she wraps her hands around the hilt of the sword and yanks it from his chest. She tosses it aside, and it clatters across the Bifröst before skidding off the edge.

“Heimdallr —” Hnoss whimpers, dropping to her knees beside him.

“Hnoss,” he croaks out, expression changing to a pained smile. Hnoss reaches out and wipes the tears from his eyes, giving a faint sob of her own. “I knew I’d see you again.”

“Did you?”

“I certainly hoped.”

Hnoss attempts a chuckle, but it comes out broken and pained. She wipes at her own tears before taking Heimdallr’s hand. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers. “Come with me, we can help you.”

“You know I can’t,” Heimdallr replies, lifting a hand to weakly cup Hnoss’ cheek. “This is my fate. I am resigned to it.”

“ _Please_. No, please.” Hnoss cups her free hand over Heimdallr’s, leaning into his touch. “You’re my best friend, I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’ve survived this long without me. You’ll be alright. I know it.” He gives a small smile, and Hnoss tries to return it. “Please, Hnoss. Go. The Bifröst is breaking. I don’t want you to fall too.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“I got to see you one last time. That was all I needed. Please, Hnoss — I won’t let you die.”

Hnoss blinks away tears and gives a faint nod. For just a moment she leans down and wraps her arms around Heimdallr. Then she stands, catching sight of the ever-enlarging cracks around them, and sprints back in the direction of Midgard.

She’s almost back at ground level when the Bifröst starts giving way under her. Hnoss stumbles, trying to step on the most stable parts of the bridge, but it’s falling apart faster than she can run. She gives a final, last-ditch effort and jumps, reaching desperately for the cliff’s edge. Hnoss’ fingertips scrape the rock and she cries out as she starts plummeting.

A hand wraps around her wrist, bringing her to an abrupt stop. The sudden jolt pops her arm from the socket and she gives a sharp cry, fresh tears springing up. Hnoss looks up to see Kratos, expression strained as he pulls her up. She kicks up off the cliff, free hand clawing at the rock as she tries to help Kratos pull her up.

With a grunt, Kratos hauls Hnoss up onto the cliff. She rolls onto her back, panting, and after catching her breath turns her attention to Kratos.

“Thank you,” she says softly. He says nothing, but gives her a brief glance before looking up at where the Bifröst once stood.

“No way up.”

“Apparently so.” Hnoss sits up, hand moving to her dislocated shoulder. She pops it back into place with a groan. “That’ll do for now.”

“I need to get up there. I have to find him.”

“Kratos —” Hnoss starts, but she’s cut off by a great rumbling, and the sound of a deep roar.

The trees behind them crack apart as Jörmungandr breaks through them, calling out again as he rears up. The serpent surges forwards again, up towards the shattered far end of the Bifröst, and Asgard beyond.

Kratos’ expression shifts to one of determination and he unhooks Mimir from his belt. “Keep him safe,” he orders, holding Mimir out to Hnoss.

“Kratos —”

“Keep. Him. _Safe_.”

Hnoss reluctantly takes hold of the vines would round Mimir’s horns, and Kratos steps back, before turning to run towards Jörmungandr. He leaps up, catching hold of the edge of a scale and hauling himself into place on the Serpent’s back.

 

Loki lands in the centre of a courtyard, taking a moment to get his bearings. All around him, the warriors of Odin clash with the Jötnar. Even after their years lost in Helheim, they remain fierce warriors. Loki can’t help but feel a swell of pride.

An arrow whistles past his ear and Loki spins, drawing his own bow. He looses an arrow, and the man who attacked him grunts in pain as it lodges in his chest.

Loki takes a deep breath, knowing he needs to focus. He’s still in the middle of a battle — one slip up could get him killed. Loki dashes to the edge of the courtyard and takes cover behind a tree. He watches over all the Jötnar nearby, shooting at the human warriors near them who seem too much of a threat.

After a few minutes, movement catches Atreus’ attention. He looks up as Jörmungandr’s head appears above them. The serpent gives a roar before plummeting down, crashing into buildings and reducing them to rubble. Atreus beams, then looks around for where to go. He has a destination in mind, but it has been three years since he last stepped foot in Asgard. Slipping his bow back over his shoulder, Atreus draws his knife and takes off running.

Rounding a corner, Atreus comes face to face with a small group of warriors. One takes a swing at him, and he ducks out of the way. The second he stands, a fist connects with his shoulder blade hard enough for him to drop his sword, and another warrior digs his axe into Atreus’ side.

Atreus swings around with a roar, flames bursting to life on his skin. His fist connects with the face of the man who punched him hard enough to break bone. The second he makes contact, he feels a surge of energy power through him. The wound on his side from the axe begins healing, and Atreus grins. He punches the man another one, two, three times, each hit fuelling the flames and healing his wounds. He understands why his father utilised this power.

A man with a sword comes at him then, and Atreus ducks away from him. He spins, punching the man right between the shoulder blades. He topples, crying out. The man with the axe, having recovered from his shock, swings at Atreus again. The young god dives forwards, grabbing his sword from where it fell, and brings it up in a broad arc. It slices through the flesh and bone of the man’s outstretched arm, severing it at the wrist. His hand, still clutching the axe, falls to the ground.

Atreus steps back and wipes at his face. The man, now down a hand, staggers away. Atreus takes a moment to collect himself before turning towards the main halls.

Loki slips seamlessly into control and begins running, the scenery around him becoming more and more familiar. He weaves his way around battles, helping where he can, but ultimately focussed on reaching the hall.

He makes it to the steps of Odin’s palace when the sky splits. A great line of fire cuts across the sky, and when it opens, the massive form of Surtr is revealed beyond. The Jötunn, wielding the giant sword Atreus met in Muspelheim, leaps from the split sky to crash into Asgard’s centre. Loki doesn’t hesitate, just smiles and ducks into the palace.

Once inside, Loki has no problem navigating. He spent two years walking this path — it’s ingrained so deeply into his memory, he doubts he could ever forget it.

Loki finally skids to a stop in front of the door, which he pushes tentatively open. There she is, sitting by the window, overlooking the destruction. She doesn’t move, even as he steps into the room.

“Do what you want with me,” she says, “I won’t put up a fight.”

“Fulla!” Atreus cries, voice cracking, and the stunned goddess barely has time to stand and turn before he crashes into her.

“Atreus!” she gapes, momentarily too stunned to do react. Finally she forces her hands to move, her arms to wrap around Atreus and draw him in close. He’s less than a head shorter than her now. “But — how? Heimdallr told us you were killed!”

“I was,” Atreus says, pulling back. He tugs down the front of his tunic to reveal the scar, and pretends not to notice Fulla’s gaze moving first to the _Valknut_. “But then — I don’t know. I woke up in Helheim. But I found the Jötnar, Fulla — isn’t it amazing?”

It takes her a second to respond, and Atreus realises how things must look from her side of the battle.

“I mean —”

“It is amazing,” Fulla replies, smiling faintly. “You’re only so young, and you’ve achieved so much.”

Atreus ducks his head, smiling. “I just did what I had to do.” He straightens then, expression becoming serious. “And speaking of, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Come with me.” Fulla’s expression shifts to one of surprise, but before she can say anything, Atreus continues. “None of the prophecies mention you by name. Your fate isn’t sealed. If you stay here, you’ll die. Asgard is falling apart, and you’ll go with it. But if you come with me, you’ll be safe. When all this is over you can come back to Midgard. You can live. Please.”

Fulla studies Atreus for a moment, expression becoming unreadable. She casts a gaze out the window, at the fire and destruction spreading through the realm. After a moment she turns her gaze back to Atreus and gives a resigned smile. “How can I say no?”

Atreus beams, throwing his arms around her again. “Thank you!” He takes a step back, looking around the room. “Grab whatever you want to take with you. We need to go.”

“There isn’t much I want here,” Fulla replies, crossing the room. She lifts a knife and a belt from her shelves, buckling it around her waist and fitting the knife in. “But there’s something I need to get from another room.”

“Show me the way,” Loki replies, tightening his grip on his own knife. Fulla nods and steps out her still-open door into the hallway, then breaks into a run. Loki hurries after her, realising after a moment that they’re headed in the direction of the Great Hall. Only, they make a turn before they reach it, going instead to a pair of ornately carved doors a few hallways down.

Fulla pushes the doors open and steps into a large room, much larger than the one Loki was given. He looks around in wonder, following Fulla to the cupboard by the bed. She throws the doors open and begins hurriedly looking through the shelves, pushing things aside to look for…something. Finally she pulls back with a triumphant cry, hands wrapped tightly around a fist-sized sphere. She hurriedly puts the sphere into one of the pouches on her belt before nodding to Loki.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

Loki takes the lead, sword drawn defensively. The palace stands empty, so he doesn’t need to really defend Fulla until they reach the front doors. Stepping out into the light, he comes upon a group of Jötnar, standing around the steps in a defensive position. For a moment, he’s overcome by an emotion he can’t quite name. Then he clears his throat to catch their attention and motions towards Fulla.

“This woman is under my protection,” he says, knowing the message will be passed along quickly enough. “No one lays a hand on her.”

The group before him nod, and split off in their own directions, no longer needing to guard the door. Loki beckons for Fulla to follow him and starts off in the direction most of the Jötnar had gone.

“Is it smart to be running right into the middle of the fighting?” Fulla asks, not scared so much as mildly concerned.

“Trust me,” Atreus replies, voice grim. “I need to make sure this all ends the way it should. It’s my fate. The whole reason I’m here.”

A strange expression flickers across Fulla’s face, gone before Atreus can read it. He turns his attention forwards again, throwing a hand up to stop an approaching arrow.

“I’m still not used to that,” Fulla murmurs, drawing her knife even as Atreus turns the arrow back on the archer who fired it. “You’ve been practising!”

“I had three years and not a lot to do,” Atreus replied, ghost of a smile on his lips. He holds up a hand, whispering spells, and tightens his fist. Thick roots burst from the ground, twisting around a group of human warriors but leaving the Jötnar around them untouched.

“When you say you need to make sure this ends —”

“I’m going to find Odin. I need to be sure — I need to know —” Atreus pulls at his hair with a groan. “After everything that my people suffered through…I need to know it wasn’t in vain. I need to know I didn’t fail them.”

That same expression crosses Fulla’s face and she reaches a hand out. “Atreus —”

He holds up a hand, skidding to a stop at the side of a crumbling building. In front of them, a handful of Jötnar struggle to fend off a small crowd of humans. They’re outnumbered, some injured.

Loki surges forwards, the cry of “ _Vindr_ ,” sharp on his tongue. The human warriors are all thrown backwards by the force of the wind, giving Loki a chance to join the other Jötnar. The second the first warrior pushes himself to his feet, flames burst to life along Loki’s arms, and he charges the man with a roar.

The Jötnar follow suit, taking the opportunity to fight while the humans are still stunned. Loki twists, throwing a hand out with a hiss of, “ _Spjǫr_.” Spears of pure magic form, already in motion, in the air before him, embedding themselves deeply in the oncoming warriors.

One of the closest Jötnar, whose numbers now much more easily match those of the humans, casts Loki a nod and a quick, “Go. We can take it from here.” Loki nods, jerks his head for Fulla to follow him and breaks into a run.

 

Far below Asgard, Kratos clings desperately to the edge of Jörmungandr’s scale. The serpent, only moments prior, stopped his ascent in favour of attack, leaving the rest of his body — and, subsequently, Kratos — to writhe about in midair.

Kratos is no stranger to giant beasts and perilous climbs, so even through the twisting and the writhing he steels his nerves and hauls himself ever upwards. For a brief moment, Jörmungandr’s body stops thrashing and writhing long enough for Kratos to stand and run. Then his whole body shifts with a deep roar and Kratos is sent tumbling down his length.

With a grunt, Kratos draws his axe and brings it down at the edge of a scale. The scale cracks, the axe catching, and Kratos is able to stop his downwards plummet. He regrets injuring the serpent, but at the same time, he highly doubts Jörmungandr will even feel something as small as the axe.

Kratos hauls himself again onto Jörmungandr’s back, hooks the axe in its place and resumes the arduous task of hauling himself up to Asgard, and to his son.

 

Atreus stands face to face with a man he’d hoped never to see again.

Thor stares him down, a sick grin on his face, Mjölnir clutched tightly in his grip. Even now, heart hammering against his chest and throat tight, Atreus stands between Thor and Fulla, sword at the ready.

“Well, fancy that. Heimdallr told us he’d offed you.” Thor’s grin impossibly widens. “I’m a little glad, though. Means I’ll get to kill you myself.”

“Leave him be, Thor. This is not your fight.” Fulla tries to step around Atreus, her own knife raised, but he holds her back.

“I’ll make it mine. I have a little revenge to serve.”

Atreus says nothing, just takes a slow step forwards. He raises his sword, cups his free hand around his mouth, and roars dead words to the sky.

Thor, taken by surprise, hesitates a moment before raising Mjölnir. He starts running, and Fulla in turn dashes forwards, grabbing hold of Atreus’ shoulders in an attempt to pull him back. He remains firmly in place, though.

“It’s funny you say that,” Atreus finally calls. “I’ve got a friend who’s after some revenge, too.”

Thor falters, coming altogether to a stop as Atreus’ roar is echoed by a much louder, much deeper one. Just a second later the sky goes dark, then there’s a deafening crash as Jörmungandr slams into the ground, jaws snapping and head crushing the surrounding buildings.

Fulla gives a shocked half-laugh, dropping her hands back to her sides. Atreus smiles up at the serpent, relief painted across his face. He hurriedly steps back as Thor and Jörmungandr’s battle grows in intensity, Fulla hot on his heels.

“Where, exactly, are you hoping to find Odin?” she asks, expression growing darker as she takes in the scenes of destruction around her.

“I don’t know, exactly. But he’s a leader, so he’s sure to be in the middle of everything. As worried as he is about dying, he’s too proud to hide away.”

“Maybe try following Fenrir.”

“Fenrir?”

Fulla looks at him like he’s just grown another head. “The wolf you summoned. Big, black, fated to devour Odin come Ragnarök? Hard to miss.”

Atreus ducks his head with a huff of, “No one told me what he was called.”

“Come on, then. Fenrir will be our best bet.” This time it’s Fulla leading the charge, and Atreus isn’t complaining. He follows her closely, every twist and turn around crumbling buildings and through ravaged courtyards.

They’re at the edge of Odin’s realm when they see Fenrir — already much bigger than when Atreus summoned him. He looks ruthless, hungry eyes sweeping the land for signs of life as he tears apart the land around him with tooth and claw.

And there, between Atreus and Fenrir, looking untouched by the battle raging around him, stands Odin.

“It’s too easy,” Atreus whispers, even as he walks towards the old god. “Fenrir is right there. And he’s out in the open. It’s all too easy.”

“You’re right. Be wary.”

No sooner have the words passed Fulla’s lips than Odin spins, arm a blur. Atreus sees something coming, some motion he doesn’t quite understand, then his view of Odin is suddenly blocked. There’s the sickening sound of something piercing flesh, the wet tearing of muscle, and Atreus looks down to find a bloody spear tip level with his stomach. Only, it isn’t his stomach it pierced.

Atreus looks up, horrified, brain piecing together what happened in the seconds prior. Fulla leans over him, her back to Odin, the spear protruding from her stomach. There’s another gross tearing sound and the spear flies backwards out of Fulla, leaving a gaping hole. As Atreus watches, Odin catches the spear that goes flying back to him, much in the same way his father catches his axe.

Fulla lets out a throaty gasp and sinks to her knees, hands pressing tightly over her wound. Atreus follows her down, hands shaking as he reaches out for her side, a healing spell already dancing at the tip of his tongue. But as he moves to draw Fulla’s hands away, he sees them already glowing with a faint blue light.

“Go,” she hisses, momentarily pausing her spell. “I’ll be okay. Just keep him off me.”

It takes Atreus a second to respond, then he scrambles to his feet with a determined nod. He takes a few steps to put himself again between Fulla and Odin, then releases the magic forming his sword and tucks the knife away.

Drawing his bow, Atreus meets Odin’s gaze. He remembers, distantly, walking around the gardens of Odin’s realm with him. Of talking to him. Of considering the man a friend. Those distant memories are just that — distant. Meaningless.

Atreus lets loose an arrow, and another, and another, each one charged with magic and runic beasts and pure, unbridled fury. Before him stands not a man but a monster — a god who slanders the title.

Odin breaks into a run, and Atreus kicks off parallel to him, drawing his attention away from Fulla. Odin follows, interest focussed wholly on Atreus. He hurls his spear and Atreus leaps out of the way, firing another arrow as he does. Odin dodges the arrow, but the lightning tipping it catches him just as he’s calling for his spear to return. Odin fumbles, missing grabbing the spear as it flies to him. It buries itself deeply in the ground beside him, and when he tries to retrieve it, Atreus takes the opportunity to fire off another round.

The arrows all hit their mark — two in the shoulder and one between the ribs — and Odin bellows with rage. He tears the spear from the ground and charges Atreus. The boy barely has time to dodge, ducking and weaving away from the still-bloody spearhead. In his haste to get away, he drops his bow.

Odin comes at him again, eyes alight with fury. Atreus, still clutching an arrow tightly, reaches up in an attempt to drive it into Odin’s throat. The old god catches his wrist, though, and turns the arrow back on Atreus. He drives it deep into the young god’s shoulder with enough force to send it out the other side. Atreus cries out and kicks up, managing to knock Odin off balance enough that he can scramble backwards and away, tearing the arrow free as he does.

Atreus, in his desperation to get away, takes no note of where he’s going and slams back into rubble. He grabs at his knife, but he barely gets ahold of it before a sharp kick sends it flying from his hand. Odin looms over him, spear raised. He drops to his knees on either side of Atreus, bringing the spear down with him, and the boy throws his hands up in a final, desperate act. He catches Odin’s wrists, using all his might to push back against them. But for all his god and Jötunn blood, he’s still but a child compared to Odin.

“Give up,” the god hisses, grinning, and Atreus chokes back tears as he realises the man is only playing with him. He could end it in a heartbeat if he wanted.

“No,” he replies, voice wet and shaking. He can barely get the words out. “I’ll never give in to you.”

“You could have been something incredible. We could have made you _incredible_.”

Atreus gives a desperate, pitiful shove back against Odin, crying out as he feels the tip of the spear graze his chest.

“Please —” he croaks out, gasping as the spearhead digs in slightly. Odin laughs at what he believes to be the boy’s final pleas. Then Atreus screws his eyes shut, shoves hard and roars, “ _Fenrir_!”

Odin’s eyes widen and he looks up, panicked gaze finding the wolf, who is already bounding to Atreus’ call. He turns his attention back to Atreus, fury written across his face, and drives the spear down at the same time Atreus hisses, “ _Vindr_.” The old god goes flying, but not before the spear cracks through Atreus’ breastbone. He cries out, tears finally spilling free, as his hands move to the shaft of the spear.

Atreus takes hold of the spear and pulls, tearing it from his chest. He drops it at his side, head tipping back as he stifles a groan and tries to catch his breath.

“Atreus!” Fulla cries, dropping down at his side. She reaches out, hands shaking almost as much as her voice, and presses her fingers against the wound. “Please —”

“I’m okay.” Atreus lifts his head, offering a faint smile, and Fulla gives a shaky sigh of relief. “It’s not deep.”

“Stay still,” she says, already beginning to channel her magic into his wound. Atreus turns his gaze down to her stomach, where her own injury is still prominent.

“Your stomach —”

“Will be okay for the moment.”

That ends the conversation, and Atreus lets himself drop back against the rubble. It’s uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but he’s suddenly exhausted.

The spear beside him clatters loudly against the rubble before flying away. Atreus lifts his head, dread filling him. Odin stands up from where he was thrown, gaze murderous. He starts walking towards them, and Atreus begins cycling through all the spells he knows, trying to figure out which will best defend him and Fulla from the madman approaching, when he suddenly doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Fenrir, one jaw on the ground, shoots across his line of vision, catching Odin in his mouth. He snaps his jaws shut and comes to a stop just outside of Atreus’ peripheral. It’s so sudden that it takes him a moment to react.

Then Atreus starts laughing.

All the stress and fear leaves him in laughter that shakes his whole body, even as he cries. After everything — all the fear and the pain — Odin was snapped up in a single bite. The mere concept is suddenly hilarious to him.

“I should have just called Fenrir sooner,” he manages, and then Fulla is laughing too. Atreus, chest now healed, leans up to throw his arms around her. He stays in Fulla’s arms until his laughter dies away and his body stops shaking, then he pushes himself to his feet and offers a hand to Fulla, who gratefully accepts it.

“We did it.” Atreus drops his hands to his hips and takes a minute to breathe. Fulla stands beside him, healing hand again pressed to her wounded stomach. “It’s over now, right?”

Fulla says nothing, gaze on Fenrir, and Atreus’ face falls.

“Fulla? It _is_ over, isn’t it?”

“Did they really never tell you?” She gives Atreus a sad look. “Fenrir will go on to devour the world, just as he did Odin.”

Atreus’ eyes widen and he takes a half step back. “No. No, he — I won’t let him.”

“What can you do?”

“I —” he pauses, then looks up at Fenrir, expression hardening. “I’ll take him back. I created him, I can…unmake him, too.”

“Atreus, it’ll kill you!” Fulla reaches out with her free hand to catch his shoulder. “Look how big he’s grown so quickly — you can’t handle him now. You’ll die.”

“Maybe. But if I don’t try, everyone will die.”

“You don’t have to do this. You’re still just a child, Atreus — this shouldn’t fall on you.”

Atreus reaches up and lifts her hand from his shoulder. He smiles at her and takes a few steps back. “Be safe. And if you find my father…tell him I’m sorry. And I love him.”

Fulla can only watch as Atreus crosses the rubble-strewn courtyard. He whistles sharply, and Fenrir turns towards him, lowering his head to the ground. Around her, Jötnar step out from between the remains of buildings, all watching on silently.

Atreus reaches his hands up to Fenrir’s snout, offering him a sympathetic smile. “Try not to kill me?” he asks softly, earning a faint whimper. With a soft sigh, Atreus channels his magic into his palms, and calls the magic in Fenrir back to him.

He’s instantly blinded, vision going white at the same time as he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Fulla was right, of course — it’s too much for him, far too much. There’s no way he can contain so much raw power, but it’s too late to back out now. Besides, he can’t even feel his hands enough to pull them away.

Then he feels…something. A faint touch. He can’t properly distinguish where — it’s lost in the sea of blinding white. But it’s there. Then there’s another, and another, each one bringing more clarity than the last.

The blinding white begins fading, and Atreus is able to make out what each touch is. They’re hands, pressed against his back, his shoulders, his arms. And as the white fades away fully, and Atreus opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of dozens of Jötnar surrounding him, each one syphoning off some of the energy he, himself, was withdrawing from Fenrir. When he looks up, he finds his hands no longer pressed deep into fur, but instead surrounded by black smoke.

More Jötnar join in, those who cannot reach him instead putting their hands on their peers. The strain on Atreus lessens further, but still, by the time all the magic is absorbed, he is floored.

The Jötnar slowly take their hands away, and Atreus gives them all a grateful smile before wavering on his feet. The closest reaches out to catch him, and moment later, Fulla is there to bare his weight. The Jötnar around them all step back, giving them space.

Atreus practically collapses against Fulla as he’s handed over, and she wraps her arms around him tightly as though afraid he will vanish should she let go. They get only a brief moment of peace, though, before Loki twists around, arm extended and the spell for a shield dancing across his lips. He just barely manages to summon it before an axe collides with it. It’s enough to break the spell, and Loki drops his arm.

“This woman,” he declares again, exhausted voice as loud as he can manage, “is under my protection!”

Then his gaze falls to the axe, lying on the ground at his feet. The familiar axe. It twitches, then flies back through the air to a waiting hand. His gaze follows its path, watches as it’s hooked into place, and finally he dares look at just who threw the axe.

“Father,” Atreus whispers. He blinks, and his vision goes blurry with tears. Fulla loosens her hold on him and he takes a step forwards, then another, and another — he takes a final step before his legs give out and he falls, right into his father’s arms.

Kratos sinks to the ground, arms wrapped tight around his son, who in turn buries his face in the crook of his father’s neck. Atreus clings to him, suddenly so small in his arms. He’s shaking, and Kratos can hear his breaths rasping as he cries, but he’s warm and breathing and _alive_.

“I thought I lost you,” Kratos finally manages, his voice close to breaking.

“I’m sorry.” Atreus clings a little tighter. “I’m so sorry, I —”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” He can’t put into words how relieved he is to see his son safe, how much joy he feels and how much worry was lifted from his shoulders at the mere sight of him. So he does not try, just holds Atreus a little closer and hopes his son will understand.

He does.

Neither one is sure how long they stay like that, caught up in each other’s arms, two gods stripped down to their most human. They’re only sure of each other.

Finally, Atreus lifts his head, just enough for his gaze to pass over Kratos’ shoulder, and his breath catches in his throat. He sits up, attention never leaving the figure who caught it. Kratos, concern written on his face, turns his head to follow Atreus’ gaze, and he, too, freezes.

There, standing exactly as Atreus once saw her in a dream — surrounded by rubble and back-lit by fire — stands Faye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention before how ironic it is that I named this story 'Your Soul's in a Wildfire' and then hurled Atreus' soul into Helheim, which is probably where a lot of you are after this chapter.  
> I'm so sorry for the wait, honestly I never meant for it to take this long but I lost all motivation to write, and figured waiting until I was able to write a good chapter for you all was better than forcing out a terrible one.  
> Just one more chapter to go after this, and then the story will be over! I'm a little sad about that.  
> Leave your thoughts and feedback in the comments!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home

There are no words to accurately describe the whirlwind of emotion inside both Atreus and Kratos. Neither had ever expected to see Faye again and yet, there she stands, expression radiating with warmth and love.

Atreus stands on shaking legs, Kratos steadying him as he, too, rises. It’s obvious, in hindsight, that Faye — Laufey — would be there. She’s a Jötunn, after all. But the thought had never occurred to Atreus.

But now that she’s right in front of him…

Atreus takes a slow step forwards, still unsteady from the act of unmaking Fenrir. He lingers within reach of his father for just a moment longer before he pushes on, closing the gap between himself and his mother. Faye starts walking too, making it easier on him, so that just a few long strides later, Atreus is able to fall into her waiting arms.

It feels like all he’s done over the last few minutes has been cry, and even though he thought he’d exhausted all the tears he had left, Atreus finds himself tearing up as his mother wraps her arms around him. He doesn’t sob, just buries his face in the crook of her neck and cries silent tears.

“Hello, my darling,” Faye says softly, lifting a hand to run gentle fingers through Atreus’ hair. He clings to her a little tighter, suddenly feeling like a young child again.

“You’re here,” Atreus finally manages, voice muffled by the fur on Faye’s shoulders.

“I am. Thanks to you.”

A few silent moments pass before Kratos finally closes the distance, moving to stand by Faye. She alters her grip on Atreus, moving him around to her left side so she can face Kratos.

“Hello, my love,” she says, voice warm and bright.

“Am I?”

For a second Faye looks concerned, then her expression warms and she laughs softly into her right hand. Her laughter rings like the chiming of bells, and it makes Kratos’ heart pinch.

“Of course you are.” Faye reaches her hand up to cup Kratos’ cheek, and he subconsciously leans into her touch. “Kratos, I love you with all of myself. Yes, it was my visions that first led me to you. But everything that came after was real.”

Kratos places a hand over Faye’s and closes his eyes. When he opens them, his expression softens, his gaze fond. He brings Faye’s hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers.

“I know. And I missed you, too.”

They linger for a moment in that gentle contact before Faye turns her focus to Atreus. She runs her left hand through his hair, catching his attention with a soft, “And you, my darling.”

Atreus looks up at her with now-dry eyes, a myriad of emotions playing across his face. Faye offers him a reassuring smile.

“I knew you could do it. We all did.”

Atreus’ face falls and he looks down. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “for all the complications, and for making you wait so long, and for not finishing everything myself, and —”

“Stop.” Faye reaches down to lift his chin, and meets his gaze with a smile. “You have achieved more than we hoped; more than we ever could have asked. We put so much pressure on you to do what we could not, and for that I am truly sorry. But you have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. You are more than just the prophecy, Atreus. You owe us nothing, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy.”

For a moment Atreus says nothing. Then he lays his head on Faye’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “I was going to tell you everything,” he says, a faint chuckle following his words. “I told father, if I ever saw you again, I’d tell you everything we’d done. The places we’d gone, and the people we’d met. I guess I don’t have to, though, do I? You already know.”

“I do. And I couldn’t be more proud of you.” Faye lifts her head and turns her attention towards Kratos. “Both of you.”

Kratos looks momentarily at a loss for words. Then he folds his arms across his chest and puts on an annoyed tone. “You could have warned us about the dwarves.”

Faye bursts into laughter, and at her side, Atreus does too. “They can be a little — well, you know how they are. But thank them for me, won’t you? For helping you both.”

“You can’t thank them yourself?” Atreus asks, brows furrowing. Faye’s smile saddens.

“I can’t stay.”

“What?” Kratos reaches out, taking her wrist. She slips her hand down to lock her fingers through his. “You’re going?”

“We all are.” Faye directs her next words at Atreus, lowering her voice almost reverently. “We only borrowed life from you. And now we must return it.”

“But we just saw you again. Now we have to say goodbye? I can’t keep you with us?”

“I’m sorry, my darling. It would be too much for you.”

“And what of Atreus?” They both look up at Kratos, whose gaze is on the ground at his feet. “Will he…go away too?”

“No. He still has much to do. A life ahead of him. He will remain.” Faye looks between him and Atreus, expression shifting before either of them can read it. “The world will not always be kind to you. It rarely is. But you will both do great things. I promise you.”

A flicker of relief passes over Kratos’ face before his expression falls again. “But we won’t see you again?”

“Not in this life. But perhaps after it.”

Atreus looks up at the Jötnar around them. They had all retreated to give him and his father space, but now many step forwards. Atreus recognises Angrboða as one of them. She, along with several of the others who stepped forwards, bow their heads towards him. Atreus watches, as they straighten again, their bodies begin to dissipate into that golden dust. He throws his arms around his mother again.

“Goodbye, my darling,” she says, running her fingers through his hair once more.

“I love you,” Atreus murmurs.

“I love you too. I always will.” Faye cups Atreus’ face in her hands and kisses his forehead. After a moment she draws back and turns to Kratos. She leans up, resting her forehead against his, and he loops his arms around her waist. “Goodbye, my love.”

Kratos doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to — the look he gives Faye is reply enough. She reaches a hand up to cup his cheek, draping the other over his shoulder, and tilts her head to kiss him. Kratos does the same, closing his eyes as he does. For one, blissful moment, he can pretend nothing has changed, or will change. He can pretend that when he opens his eyes, Faye will be there, unchanged, in his arms. He can forget that there was ever a time she wasn’t.

Then he feels her coming away from him, in the same way Atreus had mere hours earlier. Kratos lingers for a moment, then opens his eyes to the sight of gold. The sky is lit by the golden dust, drifting upwards on the faint breeze. Atreus watches on in wonder, expression faltering only momentarily when his father steps up to his side and puts an arm gently around him. They stand, bathed in golden light, and watch the dust drift away, until they, and Fulla, are all that remain.

Kratos feels remorse, of course. To have found his wife, only to lose her again. But at the same time, there comes a sense of calm. Of relief. The doubts that had built within him since learning about his place in the prophecy have been squashed. And of course, Atreus stands against his side, battered and bruised but undeniably alive.

Fulla, who had stayed back out of respect until this point, makes her way to stand beside Atreus. She bows her head briefly to him and Kratos. “I’m sorry you had to see them go.”

“It’s okay,” Atreus says softly, gaze still on the sky. “That they came back at all was enough.”

“I know you.” Kratos’ voice is low, unsure. Fulla turns to him with a knowing smile.

“Well, you did just throw an axe at her.” Atreus offers his father a cheeky smile, and is met with only a raised eyebrow. “But, um, this is Fulla. I think I told you about her.”

“You’re the one who gave me back the waist cloth. Who watched over me after we fought Baldur.”

“Wait, you what?” Atreus’ gaze flicks between Fulla and Kratos. “You never told me that.”

“It never came up.”

Fulla chuckles at that. When her laughter dies down, she clasps her hands together in front of her, almost nervously. “Thank you for saving me,” she says, voice small. “I suppose this is where we must part ways, then.”

Atreus goes to speak, but Kratos cuts him off before he can even get a word out. “You can stay with us for now, if you need. Seeing as there is little left of your home.”

“Very subtle, father.”

Kratos folds his arms across his chest with a soft huff. Atreus just smiles.

“It’s a gracious offer —”

“But it will have to wait. I need to take Fulla somewhere.”

“What?” she and Kratos say at once.

“You are not coming home?”

“I am! Don’t worry, I am. But there’s something I have to do first. A couple of somethings, actually.”

Kratos clearly doesn’t approve of the idea, his face a mask of worry. He flicks his gaze over Atreus — the boy still looks like he’s mere moments from collapsing, and even though he healed all his major wounds, there are still minor injuries that set Kratos on edge. Sensing his unease, Atreus steps closer to his father and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll be okay,” he says gently. “I’m not going far. And I won’t be long. Then I’ll come straight home. I promise.”

It’s apparent that Kratos still isn’t entirely happy, but he nods slowly. “The only question now, it would seem, is how do we return to Midgard?”

The answer comes mere moment later in the form of a low, rumbling roar.  Atreus spins around, a little too quickly, and wavers on his feet. Fulla and Kratos both reach for him, but he catches himself before he can fall.

Before their eyes, the ground begins to shift. There’s another soft roar, then what Atreus had assumed to be solid land lifts up, shedding rubble and broken scales.

“Jörmungandr!” Atreus cries, holding his hands out. The Serpent lowers his head gently into Atreus’ open arms, and the boy rests his weight on Jörmungandr’s snout. “I told you I’d call if I needed you.” He leans back to study the Serpent. He looks a little worse for wear, but ultimately fine. “I’m glad you’re okay. Do you think you could help us down?”

Jörmungandr grumbles softly before drawing back. He moves slowly back in the direction he came from, to the edge of Asgard.

“He says he can get us back down, but we have to be careful about the spots where he’s missing scales. And he’s going to the edge so we can drop down onto his head, rather than climb up.”

“I don’t think I could have climbed that high,” Fulla admits.

“Yeah,” says Atreus, starting in the direction Jörmungandr went, “me neither.”

There isn’t much for them to hold on to atop Jörmungandr’s head, but he moves slowly enough that there’s no fear of falling. Atreus leans against his father’s side and closes his eyes. With the adrenaline fading and his nerves calming, he’s starting to ache. Everywhere. He’s just starting to properly relax when Jörmungandr comes to a stop at a cliff’s edge. Kratos nudges Atreus gently and he stands with a faint groan.

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m okay. Just a little run down.” Atreus slides carefully down Jörmungandr’s nose, stopping a few metres from where he landed. “Is that…Mimir?”

Kratos’ head snaps up and he groans. He jumps down from Jörmungandr’s head and stalks towards the pile of rocks on which Mimir rests. “Where is Hnoss? I told her to look after you.”

“Don’t worry, she was. Until she saw you coming back. That was when she left me here for you to find, and disappeared.” Mimir makes a face like he’d be shrugging if he still had shoulders and turns his attention to Atreus. “Good to see you again, little brother. And well done.”

“You too, Mimir. And thanks.”

“Ah, and who might this be?”

“Oh! This is Fulla. I have to take her somewhere before I can head home.”

“Where, exactly, are you taking me, Atreus?” Fulla asks, hands on her hips.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” He turns around and waves to Jörmungandr. “Thank you for your help, but you should go back to the Lake and rest.”

The Serpent grumbles softly and very, very carefully nudges Atreus. Then he lifts himself up, high above them, and slowly returns to the Lake of Nine.

Atreus turns back to his father, who has since returned Mimir to his place on his belt, and gives him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

Kratos nods, lingering in place for a moment before turning and walking into the trees. Once he’s out of sight, Atreus’ shoulders slump and he sighs.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired. And a bit sore. Come on, the sooner we head off, the sooner I get you where you need to go. We just have to stop off somewhere first.”

 

That ‘somewhere’ turns out to be one of Sindri’s shops. It’s the most direct stop between the cliff edge and Atreus’ final destination, but even so he’s beyond exhausted by the time he and Fulla arrive. She looks genuinely concerned, but he brushes it off.

“Sindri?” Atreus calls as he moves to the counter. “Brok?”

The air behind the counter warps for a moment, then both brothers appear before Atreus. Sindri, upon seeing Fulla behind him, gives a loud yelp and vanishes again.

“No, Sindri — uh.” Atreus turns sheepishly to Brok. “Can you get him back?”

Brok gives a exasperated sigh, but the chuckle that slips out as he vanishes suggests that he doesn’t really mean it. A moment later he and Sindri reappear, the latter still looking a little shaken.

“Hi,” Atreus says, smiling, as he leans on the counter.

“Ah, yes, hello master Atreus. I apologise for — that.” Sindri awkwardly clears his throat. “I’ve just been a little on edge what with, well, everything. We could hear the fighting from all the way down here. And of course, we saw the golden ashes.”

“So whatcha doin’ here?” Brok asks, attention moving to Fulla, who stands quietly a few metres back. “Not preparing for the end of the world?”

“It’s not coming.” Atreus flashes a grin at the dwarves’ stunned faces. “Fenrir’s gone. I, uh — you don’t have to worry. And actually, I came here with a message. From my mother.”

Sindri is the first to break the silence. “You — you saw her?”

“Yes. She wanted me to thank you both, for helping me and Father. But, um, she couldn’t stay. Like you said, you saw the gold ashes.”

“I’m sorry, Atreus.”

“It’s okay. I feel — better. For having seen her at all. I think Father feels the same.”

Sindri nods, then bites his lip lightly. “And, uh…” He nods towards Fulla.

“Right. Fulla, Brok and Sindri. Brok and Sindri, Fulla. Don’t worry, she’s my friend. And, um, I have to take her somewhere. I just came by to thank you.”

“Safe travels,” Sindri says. He nudges Brok, who grumbles out something along those lines, but gives a smile anyway.

“You too,” Atreus replies, stepping away from the counter. He motions for Fulla to follow him, and walks off down the closest path.

They’re back in the thick of the forest before Fulla asks again, “Really, Atreus, where are we going?”

“I told you,” he replies, laughter in his tone, “you just have to wait! We’re almost there, anyway.”

Fulla’s expression turns to one of confusion as she takes in their surroundings. Atreus chances a glance over his shoulder and is not disappointed by the sight of her brain running a million miles an hour as she tries to figure out where in the forest he could possibly be taking her.

It’s only when Atreus stops at a thick wall of vines and whispers a spell to them that Fulla begins to understand.

“Atreus, who — who lives here?” Fulla asks, voice a whisper. Atreus just takes her hand and starts walking into the garden. He leads Fulla down the path, pausing at the door before moving around the side of the house to the garden out the back. And there she is, kneeling on the ground, tending lovingly to the plants around her.

“Freya,” Atreus says softly, and she looks up, startled.

“Atreus. This is certainly a surprise. How can I help you?”

Atreus looks back at Fulla, then guides her around in front of him. As soon as Freya sees her, she stands up, hands flying to her mouth.

“Hello, my Lady,” Fulla manages after a moment of heavy silence. Freya blinks back tears and steps forwards at the same time as Fulla, so they crash together in the least graceful hug Atreus has ever seen.

He steps back out of the way, partially hiding himself behind a tree to give the two space. He can’t leave yet, though — there’s still one other matter to attend to.

Freya and Fulla pull apart, and Atreus can make out that they’re both crying. But they’re both smiling too, though it’s a little hard since each one is holding the other’s face in her hands like she might disappear.

Fulla suddenly lets go, wide eyes flying to the pouch on her belt as she remembers what she put in it. She pulls out the sphere — which Atreus can now clearly see is dark purple and has…something inside it — and holds it out to Freya, who seems too stunned to respond.

Finally, Freya reaches out tentatively to take the sphere into her hands. “My wings,” she whispers, voice so soft Atreus barely catches the words. She covers her mouth with one hand as her shoulders begin shaking, and Fulla wraps her in another embrace.

“I found them, just like I told you I would,” Fulla says, trying to be as reassuring as she can with a shaking voice. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get them out — he sealed them with Vanir magic.”

“No, it’s okay — Fulla it’s _more than okay_  — you _found_ them. How can I thank you?”

“Let me stay with you. That’s all I need.”

“Of course — yes, of course.”

Atreus, who had until that point kept his gaze low and reverent, closes his closes his eyes before flicking his gaze off to his right. “Took you long enough,” he says softly. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“Yeah, well,” Hnoss says, shrugging, as she steps up beside him. “I promised you, didn’t I? I’d be there whenever you longed for me.”

“Mm.” His eyes land on her right shoulder, where a large bruise is exposed by her blouse. “What happened?”

“Oh, it got dislocated when your father caught me after the Bifröst broke. I put it back in place, but I’m not sure I did it quite right. Oh well.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll let you get away with an ‘oh well’.” Atreus places his hand on her shoulder and calls on his magic without breaking eye contact. “ _Heill_ ,” he murmurs, expression just a touch cocky, and Hnoss gives him the most mocking look she can manage.

“Better?” Atreus asks as he draws his hand away.

Hnoss begrudgingly grumbles, “Yeah, I _guess_ ,” as she folds her arms over her chest.

There’s a brief moment where neither of them really knows what to say. Then Atreus speaks up. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “About Heimdallr. I know he was your friend.”

“Yeah. He was. But you did what you had to do. And I won’t hold it against you.”

“I don’t know if I deserve that.”

“I think you do.” They share another moment of silence, though the atmosphere is noticeably light, before Hnoss’ tone lifts. “So, why’d you call me here?”

“You know why. It’s the reason you took so long to get here.”

Hnoss turns her head away and looks down at the ground. “What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

“Really? Hnoss, she loves you. And she regrets what she did — she told me so herself. It’s all over now, she doesn’t have to hide you anymore. You can be a family again.”

Hnoss closes her eyes and sighs softly. “What if I’m not ready?”

“I think you are. I think you have been for a long time; you just haven’t let yourself consider going back to her.” Atreus reaches out and puts a hand on Hnoss’ shoulder “You’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Are you using your fancy Jötunn powers to see that?”

“No. I’m just smart, is all.”

Hnoss snorts at that, and Atreus elbows her lightly.

“Hey, I’m smart.”

“Yeah, I guess you are.” She offers a faint smile and runs a hand through her hair. “Thank you, Atreus.”

“You’re welcome.”

They embrace briefly, so many words they can’t say being shared through the hold. When they pull back, Atreus motions faintly in Freya’s direction. “Goodbye, Hnoss.”

“Oh, don’t look so glum. I’ll still be around to annoy you.”

Atreus can’t help but laugh softly, and it earns him a smile.

“I’ll see you around, Atreus.”

Hnoss moves past him and steps out around the tree. The confidence seems to leech out of her as she walks, but nevertheless she pushes out past the trees and into the open.

“Mother.”

Freya looks up, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. She straightens and passes the sphere holding her wings to Fulla, who looks on in confusion. As though realising this, Freya waves her fingers, which glow with a golden light. No sooner has she released the spell than Fulla steps back in surprise as the hidden memories come flooding back to her. Freya steps up to Hnoss, who still looks and feels rather unsure of herself, and cups her face gently with both hands.

“Hnoss,” she says softly, fresh tears brimming in her still-red eyes. “I thought — I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“I didn’t think _you’d_ want to see _me_.”

“Oh, darling — I’m so sorry. I never meant to make you feel unwanted. I tried to what was best for everyone, but I just ended up hurting you.”

Hnoss hesitates for a moment before throwing her arms around her mother and burying her face in Freya’s shoulder. For a moment, Freya is too stunned to react. Then she wraps her arms tightly around Hnoss, one hand resting between her shoulder blades and the other on the nape of her neck, and she rests her chin on the top of Hnoss’ head.

Atreus gives them all one final glance before he turns to walk away. He knows he can always return, and they will be there waiting, but it feels like they are moving at different speeds. Perhaps one day they’ll all catch up to each other, but for now, Atreus thinks, the three of them are best left to rebuild themselves together. Much as he and his father must rebuild themselves.

It’s something small on the side of the path home that catches Atreus’ eye. He stops, wondering if his mind is just playing tricks on him, and backtracks to find just what it was that caught his gaze. There, just beside the path, is a pale pink bud. Atreus slowly sinks to one knee, leaning forward to inspect the plant before him.

He is, indeed, looking at a flower bud — the first one he’s seen in years, outside of Freya’s magically-tended garden. The ground around it is still cold, and patches of snow still dot the earth, but no fresh snow has fallen since the battle of Ragnarök ended.

There, right before Atreus’ eyes, is a sign of hope.

It will take time for the earth to return to normal — for the grasses to grow, for the animals to returns, for the fear and trepidation to fade away — but here, in the ground before him, grows the first step.

Atreus rises, a faint smile playing on his lips, and continues towards home. A faint curl of smoke rises lazily into the sky, and even from the edge of the clearing Atreus can make out the sound of his father’s and Mimir’s playful bickering. It all seems to normal that for a moment, Atreus hesitates to intervene. Then he closes his eyes with a smile and walks forwards, because _this is home now, this is life now, this is normal_.

Atreus pushes the door open and steps inside, absentmindedly shutting it behind him. He sees the tension leave his father’s shoulders, hears the lightly-heavier-than-normal exhale, and offers a reassuring smile. The last of the worry slips from Kratos’ face, and he returns to tending the fire.

Atreus crosses the room to his bed and carefully removes his weapons, setting his knife by the headboard and resting his bow and quiver on the floor. As he unpins his half-cloak and slips it off, Atreus feels a faint, internal fear, and he presses a hand over his chest. _Not forever_ , he promises as he rests the half-cloak on the end of the bed. _Just for now._

Behind him, Mimir begins a new tale about the gods of a desert country he once visited, who could take on the form of an animal at will. Atreus takes a seat to listen, feeling the faint itch of his other skins deep beneath his own. They’re well contained, though, the itch more a reminder than a warning.

Absentmindedly, Atreus twirls the ring on his finger. It’s a habit now, and the runes, forever engraved in his memory, imprint themselves on the soft skin of his finger. _Home_.

Kratos and Mimir begin to bicker again, over the story this time — no real argument, just playful jabs to keep them both entertained, and Atreus feels a warmth spread through him. This is his life now — bizarre stories around the fire and playful arguments and a house that’s a _home_.

Loki stirs faintly beneath the surface and slips seamlessly into control. He joins in the conversation with a playful jab at the desert gods — _they can only shift into one animal, and I can shift into how many?_ — and it’s such a fluid shift that neither Kratos nor Mimir seem to actively notice, though deep down they just _know_. It feels wonderful, he thinks, to just be, to just exist and talk and laugh and _live_.

Atreus slips out of the conversation a moment later in favour of just observing, and listening, and appreciating. Appreciating the atmosphere, and the conversation, and the family before him, and how as imperfect as it is, they all come together to make his _home_. He is home.

He is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an adventure and a half to get here, hasn't it?  
> Thank you so much for sticking with me through both books! It really means so much to me that people enjoy my work enough to keep coming back.   
> I do have more ideas in the works, but until then you can find me on Instragram under the username vesaniart. I also have a tumblr under the same name but I'm not so active there.  
> If you like what I do, please consider supporting me here: ko-fi.com/vesaniart


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